Jobs kroger
Kroger
2011.09.17 04:31 amillikin Kroger
The unofficial subreddit for Kroger Workers. Discord.gg/Kroger Please direct all customer inquiries, complaints, and concerns to https://www.kroger.com/hc/help/contact-us
2013.08.14 15:08 andreasw Antiwork: Unemployment for all, not just the rich!
A subreddit for those who want to end work, are curious about ending work, want to get the most out of a work-free life, want more information on anti-work ideas and want personal help with their own jobs/work-related struggles.
2009.02.12 15:18 Cincinnati, USA
An active community of residents and others; the official subreddit for Cincinnati, Ohio, USA, and nearby places in the greater Tri-state region.
2023.03.20 20:21 Jemolk Minimum cases per hour in Dry Grocery?
Got a job offer today for a grocery night crew position. During the interview I stated I was capable of throwing 70 cases per hour minimum (including facing as I go) once I got to know the shelves; The hiring manager told me she thought the company was looking for 100 cases per hour minimum and that I would need to get a bit faster.
I'm not a stranger to retail. I was foreman at a Kroger store for some time and understand that management often "stretches the truth" (ie lies) about minimum cases per hour to boost productivity, something I couldn't reconcile with my previous dept lead and ended up quitting over. But 100 cases per hour seems like an absurd lie, coming from a Kroger store with a minimum 60 CPH.
Safeway vets, have you ever heard of an official 100 case per hour minimum throwing rate for grocery night crew, or was the hiring manager spouting bull?
submitted by Jemolk to Safeway [link] [comments]
I'm not a stranger to retail. I was foreman at a Kroger store for some time and understand that management often "stretches the truth" (ie lies) about minimum cases per hour to boost productivity, something I couldn't reconcile with my previous dept lead and ended up quitting over. But 100 cases per hour seems like an absurd lie, coming from a Kroger store with a minimum 60 CPH.
Safeway vets, have you ever heard of an official 100 case per hour minimum throwing rate for grocery night crew, or was the hiring manager spouting bull?
2023.03.20 16:19 SchlesingerMindy323 [HIRING] 25 Jobs in KY Hiring Now!
2023.03.20 12:58 lismeauhywba [HIRING] 25 Jobs in KY Hiring Now!
2023.03.20 12:43 lismeauhywba [HIRING] 25 Jobs in KY Hiring Now!
2023.03.19 11:07 peaxhes29 Lead positions
Quick question. I check everyday on jobs.Kroger.com to see if I can find a lead position close by where I live. They always post a paper on the wall of what is available but I can never find it on thre website. Is there another place to find lead positions that are still available? I'm trying to get out of my current store for a higher up position. Thank you!
submitted by peaxhes29 to kroger [link] [comments]
2023.03.19 07:35 Stormlight-Smash How do I take my 401k with me?
This might be a dumb question, but I plan to switch jobs this summer, and I don’t know how to take my 401k with me. I’ve been working for Kroger for almost a decade and I’m finally about to graduate college. As such, I’ve been saving in a 401k since I was like 19.
What do I need to do to take this account with me? The sign-in screen on the benefits section of FEED has me sign in with my EUID, and I’m not sure I’ll access have that when I leave.
submitted by Stormlight-Smash to kroger [link] [comments]
What do I need to do to take this account with me? The sign-in screen on the benefits section of FEED has me sign in with my EUID, and I’m not sure I’ll access have that when I leave.
2023.03.19 05:39 MommyHonkerDonkers My Copilot Is A Neckbeard #38
Hey there ReddX gang, it looks like I finally got a little bit more time to write, so let's not wait any longer and get into another story about Chris.
Who is Chris? Chris is a very fat and sweaty man, surrounded by an imepentrable aura of poopycum stinkystank. He is a retrograde coomgoblin, content to dwell in his own dark triad of anime, lot lizards, and meth. Chris and I both worked for a trucking company - a major one at that - and we would take turns driving our big rig down the road. Things were usually okay when Chris was driving, usually being the operative word, but when his shift would come to an end and I would take the wheel, or worse yet, when we would pull over for the evening, then the real fun would begin. No longer beholden to his job, Chris would find himself free to do Chris things. You know the things. Then, despite my best efforts to make him act like a human being, to make him observe normal human social conventions, to make him stop being so damn cringe, it was all in vain. Fortunately, I no longer have to ride with Chris.
Chris never forgave me for throwing a fit in the middle of his toilet paper horde. As we rode together that coming week, him huffing air through his filter, and me doubting the impending catastrophic severity of the surefire apocalypse that he assured me lay just around the corner, it was very terse and words were sparse. Still, the horde in the back continued to mound, and I had been burning through more money than I cared to on hotel rooms. I was getting frustrated. His paranoia was beginning to cut into my livelihood. Of course, there's no reasoning with Chris when his mind is set to something, and he had glommed on to the fear porn that was playing on the news everyday like a floaty thrown to a drowning man in the middle of the Atlantic ocean. Every day, it was, "bro, can you believe that they didn't close down the borders to China, and that they're just letting people in, dude? In the middle of a world-ending plague, for fuck's sake, and they're just letting people walk in! The demoncrats won't even let Trump stop travel from the plaguelands, man." I rolled my eyes at all of this, of course - I don't care about red team blue team bullshit in the slightest, and I was still convinced at the time (and am still convinced even to this day) that the whole ordeal was being blown entirely out of proportion by sinister interests in the media, government, healthcare, manufacturing, and retail industries... but I digress completely. Where were we? Ah, yes, the horde.
He had mustered up quite an apocalypse horde in the back, so much so that nobody could go back there for anything. Now, this was nice, in and of the fact that during those first couple weeks of covid making landfall in the United States, he was unable to spank it in the back of the truck while we drove. It did not stop him, however, from trying to spank it, though. With a mounting toilet paper horde (I swear, Chris was perhaps singlehandedly responsible for the entire toilet paper shortage in at least one state), I figured it was only a matter of time before he used it. At first I didn't notice what was happening - the wall of TP had been piled between the seats, obstructing my view of everything that happened on the passenger side save for the mirror, making the already precarious situation of driving our rig just that much more dangerous, but Chris kept piling up his horde, so much so that I couldn't even see him on the opposite side of the toilet paper wall. Frankly, I was kind of relieved I didn't have to look at him, but one morning when I came back to the truck after overnighting in a hotel and opened the door to the passenger seat, I was mortified.
Like a rat might build a nest ouf of shredded paper, he had been building a nest out of semen-soaked toilet paper. I opened the door, and sticky scraps of wipe had adhered to the seat and the console, piling on top of each other like a little neckbeard den that was just out of sight. And by the gods, there was a lot of it. He must have been hard at work "cleaning himself" just out of sight, plastering his splooge stained rags on top of each other, constructing elaborate patterns, preparing for himself a cummy coccoon in which he could hibernate until the plague had passed. I could see where he had been sneaking rolls out of his stash, evidenced by a torn open package somewhere in the middle, with a few rolls missing out of the horde, painting them with his penile discharge before pasting them to the truck.
"What the fuck is this, Chris?" I yelled as I looked up at the seat. I could hear the laborious breathing of the poopycum man through his gas mask as he pulled himself into the truck saying, "oh. I uh just had to clean up a bit while we were driving." I said, "fuck, that's great and all I guess, man, but can you clean this shit up? I am NOT sitting in there." Chris retorted, "what's wrong? It's just a little toilet paper, and we need to get on the road, man. There's another Walmart down the road and they're almost out of toilet paper." I replied, "it's a LOT of toilet paper and you blew your wad in it. I don't really think you need to stop for anymore, bro. Let some other people buy some, and you can clean this up, dude." He did not like that proposition, and insisted I stop being a baby about it, and sit in his mess. I refused and stood there. I didn't care how late the delivery would be that day or that I stood between king shitass and his toilet paper horde. I was not getting into the truck until that mess was removed. Eventually, Chris broke, and with much whinging and whining, he pulled the adhered strips from the truck. Not satisfied with just their absence, I made him open up one of those bottles of bleach he had been storing in the back for awhile now. He bitched and moaned about how I was making him cut into his apocalypse stash. You'd think that for someone completely seized by paranoia about the coof, he would have been gleeful to sterilize the truck, but I was convinced that Chris only bought those items because he was told he needed them, even though his intentions of actually using them were nonexistent. Well, he set to work bleaching the seat, and I chided him the whole time, remarking that, "it's okay, Chris. This is actual practice for when you've got to sterilize the death zones.
He wasn't happy of course, but after I was convinced the seat was clean enough, I told him to move his fat ass and climbed on into the truck beside him, taking due care not to touch the console, you know, just in case. From the other side, the poopycum man, now tired from a little bit of mild scrubbing, climbed into the driver's seat with long-winded respirations through the air filter attached to his face. He punched the truck into gear, and we were off once more, with the muffled cries of "nani? Baka!" sounding off as we rolled down the road. The anime girls were gone - he was now in total panic mode, and it was a 24/7 stream of doom and gloom from the news man.
We rode for about an hour, when, sure enough, Chris pulled us off the highway at a Walmart. People were beginning to embrace the panic at this point, and I could see folks in their multitudes coming out of the store with sacks of flour and cleaning chemicals and canned goods and god knows what else that people obsess over when they believe the world is ending. I turned my head and peeked in the back - we were loaded to the gills, alright. There wasn't an inch of free space in the back, and I wondered just what the Hell we were doing here. I turned to Chris and said, "bro, we can't take anymore. There's nowhere to put it." He replied, through muffled breaths, "we're not here to get anything. Sit tight. I'll be right back."
He opened the driver's door and began to hurl pacl after pack of toilet paper down to the ground. When he had at last unloaded a bunch, he found himself a shopping cart and piled it inside. Me, rather than sit in the coom cabin, decided to follow him and see what he was up to. He wheeled that cart full of TP rigt up to the double doors, and from the other side of his gas mask, like a fat town crier with an unwiped ass, he began to declare loudly, "I got toilet paper for sale, here!" The panic of the people, spurred on by an empty shelf within Walmart, had driven a frenzy. As soon as he declared he had toilet paper for sale, people began to swarm the cart, pushing and shoving, asking him how much he wanted for the goods. Chris had become a scalper, alright, and was pocketing dollars hand over fist on household necessities. I was awestruck as I saw people spending up to 50 dollars for a 12 pack, and he admittedly made a killing off of everything he had deliberately piled into the truck. I mean, I wasn't surprised - the only time he used toilet paper was probably to jack it, but to so callously exploit people's fears, well... that's just Chris for you, I guess. 50 bucks for a 12 pack... holy hell, have people never thought that they could just jump in the shower after pooping? What is wrong with this world, I may never know.
Well, the cart was getting lighter and he went back to the truck for more. I guess, despite as stupid as Chris can be, his exploitative nature never failed to let him seize opportunity, despite how harshly, god, civilized society, and his own coworker might judge him. He loaded up the shopping cart once more and came back for round two. I started to walk away, figuring I had seen enough. The paranoia had whipped up a frenzy of purchasing and the poopycum man had decided to cash in. I found the whole ordeal repulsive, and figured I had seen enouhj. After all, it couldn't get much worse from here, right? Silly me. I was halfway across the lot when I heard a clatter and a shriek, and I turned around to see the poopycum man, recoiling in fear, smashing his shopping cart full of TP through a crowd of people and bee-lining for the truck. He ran passed me without so much as I work, and I shouted after him, "Chris! What the Hell are you dong?" He offered no response, but rather got to the truck, flung open the door, threw his horde back in, layed on the horn, and turned on the engine. I came trotting back nice and slow, but the anxious smashing of the horn button only intensified, and when at last I got to the side of the truck and climbed in, he finally stopped, cast me a foul glance through his plastic visors, turned the engine on, and took off down the road. We pulled out of the lot in silence as the commotion out front of the Walmart prepared to precipitate into a full-blown riot and got back on the highway. I stared out the window at the thronging crowds now in chaos, trying to determine who's belongings were whose, heated tensions escalating and violence threatening to break out.
"What the fuck was that about, dude?" Chris was still struggling to catch his breath. I suppose living in a gas mask canbe tough, and Chris was certainly struggling with it today. Between gasping, sucking breaths, he said, "bro... I... I was out there... sell... selling my toilet paper, right? Everything's going f---fine... and then... then... this... fucking... subhuman... comes up... and she's not wearing a mask. And I said, 'hey lady, where's your mask? Don't you know there's a fucking plague going on right now?' And you'll... you'll never believe what she said to me bro. She says "look, I think this whole thing is getting blown way out of proportion." Can you believe that, bro? The absolute fucking DENIAL these people live in. Give it a month and we'll be stacking bodies on the streets, man. Well, she goes on and says, "they had no toilet paper in the store. Can I get some?" and I told her, "your money is no good here you maskless scum." She says, "oh come on, just sell me a damn roll." Then, bro, she coughed. I swear it, man, she fucking coughed, and I had to get the fuck out of there. I practically ran her over with my cart, bro, and I might have knocked over a couple on the way out. I'm not going to get sick and die because some stupid asshole can't wear a fucking mask."
I couldn't see Chris, but I could envision his eyes bugging out of his skull as he relayed this information to me. I found it amusing, because, well, the whole time we had been in the truck together so far, I hadn't bothered to put on a mask. I'd wear one on my way out, because the CDC recommendations were starting to come out that people ought to, but only as a formality. Truth be told, I wasn't buying much into the hype either, and I probably would have had a pleasant conversation with that woman about the detrimental effects of having a 24/7 newsbrain. I looked back towards the Walmart, assuming by now that a riot had precipitated over all the fallen goods out front of the store, and then stared back into the wall of toilet paper between me and the poopycum man, and I said "she's probably right, man. I think you're taking this shit way too seriously. Those people are probably fighting over all the stuff you spilled from their carts because you're freaking out about every little thing right now."
"I'm FREAKING OUT? What, youi really think that I'm freaking out? You're joking, right, dude?" he said this quite loudly, admittedly with a hint of freaking out on his voice. "BRO. Have you SEEN what's going on out there? It's absolute chaos, man. This is it, I swear, bro, and here you are acting all nonchalant about it saying that I'M FREAKING OUT? I'm as cool as a fucking cucumber, bro, even with somebody like you beside me burying their head in the sand. Psh... I'm freaking out..." I replied, "yes, I have seen what's going on out there, dude. I'm not ignoring it, man. Everywhere I go, people are freaking out. Now, I have yet to see people dying in the streets like you keep saying is going to happen, but what I have seen is everyone losing their damn minds. It's like this with every kind of disaster man. The real disaster is when people go nuts." He wasn't having it. He remarked, "whatever, bro. You'll be eating those words. You're just going to become a disgusting fucking plague rat, too, and then I'ma have to dump your dead body out the side of the truck, because you're too stupid to actually take care of your health."
I let the subject lie. There was obviously no convincing the poopycum man. Like I said, whenever he gets something in his head, you're never going to get him to drop it until he's damn ready to drop it. As far as he was concerned, the world was, quite factually, coming to an end. It was the final curtain call for humanity, and the world was prepared to topple endlessly into the abyss, and he was positioning himself to stand on top of it all, its filthy overlord among the rubble. Something didn't add up to me, though, and I had to know. After a few moments of cautious silent, I said, "Chris, explain something to me." He murmured, "sup" through his gas mask, and I said, "the world is ending, right? I mean, according to you anyway, it's ending." And he said "what do you mean according to me? Look around you, bro. It's all coming down." I continued, "sure, whatever. According to you. Now, if it's ending, why would you go and sell your own horde in a time of scarcity? Like, isn't the toilet paper more valuable than the dollars in a shit hits the fan scenario? So, like... why are you selling your TP?"
He got very quiet. I could hear the gears turning in his head. The hampster was on the wheel, but the wheel was jammed, and despite its best efforts to turn, all it was generating was smoke. He stammered, "screw you", and kept driving in silence, unable to actually cite the solution to this conundrum. I figured, of course, that he was going to head to the next town with TP in stock, clear out the shelves, and repeat the process ad nauseum in a self-perpetuating cycle that would keep his stash stocked and simultaneously stuff his pocket full of dollars earned by the most cynical of disaster practices. Isn't it wonderful what fear does to people?
We traveled on that day, sure enough, hopping from Walmart to Krogers to drug store to Dollar General, and one by one, sure enough, Chris would go inside, clean out the shelves of toilet paper, and then position himself outside with a full shopping cart, scalping those poor, desperate people who didn't possess daddy's money who just wanted a clean ass during uncertain times. While I never had respect for Chris, hell, while I had nothing but disrespect for Chris, today it reached new and unfathomable lows as he stuffed his wallet at the expense of other people.
When we finally traded shifts and I took the truck over for the day, the rest of the shift passed in relative peace. Of course, Chris wanted to stop on our way repeatedly, even trying to incentivize me with money, but I knew that those were just words. Chris never did anything unless it directly benefitted Chris, and so it was fairly easy to surmise that any promise of lining my own pockets was just that: a promise, sure to come without follow through. And either way, I couldn't bring myself to participate in the frenzy that society had fallen in to. It felt wrong, wrong just like the cum coccoon that Chris had constructed in the passenger seat while I was driving yesterday, wrong like a copilot who beat his meat in the back of the truck while I drove, wrong on so many levels I could never bring myself to actually traverse those depths. No, we kept driving, while he begged and pleaded with me to pull over so he could go and conduct his nefarious, predatory business.
When finally my shift came to a close, to nobody's surprise, I once more had to rent a hotel room. Chris, of course, unable to retire in the truck cab anymore, had to rent one too. We stumbled in to the front desk. Chris, still in survival mode, floated the proposition of getting a room with two beds, which I immediately ignored, told the clerk that I wanted a solo unit, and went my own way. I retired for the evening, turning on the TV momentarily only to imbibe a little bit of the same darkness and paranoia that had transfixed the poopycum man before deciding I didn't really give a damn. I kicked off my boots, took a shower, and passed out for the night. When day broke that following morning, I headed back to the truck. It was a glorious morning alright - the sun was shining, the breeze danced lightly upon my face, and as I climbed inside and started my pre-drive checklist, I looked up to see Chris waddling back from the hotel, and stuffed under his arm was the roll of toilet paper from its bathroom.
And right about here is where I'm going to conclude this story my friends. I can hear the real world a calling my name, and I've got to go and take care of it, but you can all rest assured that I will be back soon enough with yet another story about our favorite odious troglodyte, Chris.
submitted by MommyHonkerDonkers to u/MommyHonkerDonkers [link] [comments]
Who is Chris? Chris is a very fat and sweaty man, surrounded by an imepentrable aura of poopycum stinkystank. He is a retrograde coomgoblin, content to dwell in his own dark triad of anime, lot lizards, and meth. Chris and I both worked for a trucking company - a major one at that - and we would take turns driving our big rig down the road. Things were usually okay when Chris was driving, usually being the operative word, but when his shift would come to an end and I would take the wheel, or worse yet, when we would pull over for the evening, then the real fun would begin. No longer beholden to his job, Chris would find himself free to do Chris things. You know the things. Then, despite my best efforts to make him act like a human being, to make him observe normal human social conventions, to make him stop being so damn cringe, it was all in vain. Fortunately, I no longer have to ride with Chris.
Chris never forgave me for throwing a fit in the middle of his toilet paper horde. As we rode together that coming week, him huffing air through his filter, and me doubting the impending catastrophic severity of the surefire apocalypse that he assured me lay just around the corner, it was very terse and words were sparse. Still, the horde in the back continued to mound, and I had been burning through more money than I cared to on hotel rooms. I was getting frustrated. His paranoia was beginning to cut into my livelihood. Of course, there's no reasoning with Chris when his mind is set to something, and he had glommed on to the fear porn that was playing on the news everyday like a floaty thrown to a drowning man in the middle of the Atlantic ocean. Every day, it was, "bro, can you believe that they didn't close down the borders to China, and that they're just letting people in, dude? In the middle of a world-ending plague, for fuck's sake, and they're just letting people walk in! The demoncrats won't even let Trump stop travel from the plaguelands, man." I rolled my eyes at all of this, of course - I don't care about red team blue team bullshit in the slightest, and I was still convinced at the time (and am still convinced even to this day) that the whole ordeal was being blown entirely out of proportion by sinister interests in the media, government, healthcare, manufacturing, and retail industries... but I digress completely. Where were we? Ah, yes, the horde.
He had mustered up quite an apocalypse horde in the back, so much so that nobody could go back there for anything. Now, this was nice, in and of the fact that during those first couple weeks of covid making landfall in the United States, he was unable to spank it in the back of the truck while we drove. It did not stop him, however, from trying to spank it, though. With a mounting toilet paper horde (I swear, Chris was perhaps singlehandedly responsible for the entire toilet paper shortage in at least one state), I figured it was only a matter of time before he used it. At first I didn't notice what was happening - the wall of TP had been piled between the seats, obstructing my view of everything that happened on the passenger side save for the mirror, making the already precarious situation of driving our rig just that much more dangerous, but Chris kept piling up his horde, so much so that I couldn't even see him on the opposite side of the toilet paper wall. Frankly, I was kind of relieved I didn't have to look at him, but one morning when I came back to the truck after overnighting in a hotel and opened the door to the passenger seat, I was mortified.
Like a rat might build a nest ouf of shredded paper, he had been building a nest out of semen-soaked toilet paper. I opened the door, and sticky scraps of wipe had adhered to the seat and the console, piling on top of each other like a little neckbeard den that was just out of sight. And by the gods, there was a lot of it. He must have been hard at work "cleaning himself" just out of sight, plastering his splooge stained rags on top of each other, constructing elaborate patterns, preparing for himself a cummy coccoon in which he could hibernate until the plague had passed. I could see where he had been sneaking rolls out of his stash, evidenced by a torn open package somewhere in the middle, with a few rolls missing out of the horde, painting them with his penile discharge before pasting them to the truck.
"What the fuck is this, Chris?" I yelled as I looked up at the seat. I could hear the laborious breathing of the poopycum man through his gas mask as he pulled himself into the truck saying, "oh. I uh just had to clean up a bit while we were driving." I said, "fuck, that's great and all I guess, man, but can you clean this shit up? I am NOT sitting in there." Chris retorted, "what's wrong? It's just a little toilet paper, and we need to get on the road, man. There's another Walmart down the road and they're almost out of toilet paper." I replied, "it's a LOT of toilet paper and you blew your wad in it. I don't really think you need to stop for anymore, bro. Let some other people buy some, and you can clean this up, dude." He did not like that proposition, and insisted I stop being a baby about it, and sit in his mess. I refused and stood there. I didn't care how late the delivery would be that day or that I stood between king shitass and his toilet paper horde. I was not getting into the truck until that mess was removed. Eventually, Chris broke, and with much whinging and whining, he pulled the adhered strips from the truck. Not satisfied with just their absence, I made him open up one of those bottles of bleach he had been storing in the back for awhile now. He bitched and moaned about how I was making him cut into his apocalypse stash. You'd think that for someone completely seized by paranoia about the coof, he would have been gleeful to sterilize the truck, but I was convinced that Chris only bought those items because he was told he needed them, even though his intentions of actually using them were nonexistent. Well, he set to work bleaching the seat, and I chided him the whole time, remarking that, "it's okay, Chris. This is actual practice for when you've got to sterilize the death zones.
He wasn't happy of course, but after I was convinced the seat was clean enough, I told him to move his fat ass and climbed on into the truck beside him, taking due care not to touch the console, you know, just in case. From the other side, the poopycum man, now tired from a little bit of mild scrubbing, climbed into the driver's seat with long-winded respirations through the air filter attached to his face. He punched the truck into gear, and we were off once more, with the muffled cries of "nani? Baka!" sounding off as we rolled down the road. The anime girls were gone - he was now in total panic mode, and it was a 24/7 stream of doom and gloom from the news man.
We rode for about an hour, when, sure enough, Chris pulled us off the highway at a Walmart. People were beginning to embrace the panic at this point, and I could see folks in their multitudes coming out of the store with sacks of flour and cleaning chemicals and canned goods and god knows what else that people obsess over when they believe the world is ending. I turned my head and peeked in the back - we were loaded to the gills, alright. There wasn't an inch of free space in the back, and I wondered just what the Hell we were doing here. I turned to Chris and said, "bro, we can't take anymore. There's nowhere to put it." He replied, through muffled breaths, "we're not here to get anything. Sit tight. I'll be right back."
He opened the driver's door and began to hurl pacl after pack of toilet paper down to the ground. When he had at last unloaded a bunch, he found himself a shopping cart and piled it inside. Me, rather than sit in the coom cabin, decided to follow him and see what he was up to. He wheeled that cart full of TP rigt up to the double doors, and from the other side of his gas mask, like a fat town crier with an unwiped ass, he began to declare loudly, "I got toilet paper for sale, here!" The panic of the people, spurred on by an empty shelf within Walmart, had driven a frenzy. As soon as he declared he had toilet paper for sale, people began to swarm the cart, pushing and shoving, asking him how much he wanted for the goods. Chris had become a scalper, alright, and was pocketing dollars hand over fist on household necessities. I was awestruck as I saw people spending up to 50 dollars for a 12 pack, and he admittedly made a killing off of everything he had deliberately piled into the truck. I mean, I wasn't surprised - the only time he used toilet paper was probably to jack it, but to so callously exploit people's fears, well... that's just Chris for you, I guess. 50 bucks for a 12 pack... holy hell, have people never thought that they could just jump in the shower after pooping? What is wrong with this world, I may never know.
Well, the cart was getting lighter and he went back to the truck for more. I guess, despite as stupid as Chris can be, his exploitative nature never failed to let him seize opportunity, despite how harshly, god, civilized society, and his own coworker might judge him. He loaded up the shopping cart once more and came back for round two. I started to walk away, figuring I had seen enough. The paranoia had whipped up a frenzy of purchasing and the poopycum man had decided to cash in. I found the whole ordeal repulsive, and figured I had seen enouhj. After all, it couldn't get much worse from here, right? Silly me. I was halfway across the lot when I heard a clatter and a shriek, and I turned around to see the poopycum man, recoiling in fear, smashing his shopping cart full of TP through a crowd of people and bee-lining for the truck. He ran passed me without so much as I work, and I shouted after him, "Chris! What the Hell are you dong?" He offered no response, but rather got to the truck, flung open the door, threw his horde back in, layed on the horn, and turned on the engine. I came trotting back nice and slow, but the anxious smashing of the horn button only intensified, and when at last I got to the side of the truck and climbed in, he finally stopped, cast me a foul glance through his plastic visors, turned the engine on, and took off down the road. We pulled out of the lot in silence as the commotion out front of the Walmart prepared to precipitate into a full-blown riot and got back on the highway. I stared out the window at the thronging crowds now in chaos, trying to determine who's belongings were whose, heated tensions escalating and violence threatening to break out.
"What the fuck was that about, dude?" Chris was still struggling to catch his breath. I suppose living in a gas mask canbe tough, and Chris was certainly struggling with it today. Between gasping, sucking breaths, he said, "bro... I... I was out there... sell... selling my toilet paper, right? Everything's going f---fine... and then... then... this... fucking... subhuman... comes up... and she's not wearing a mask. And I said, 'hey lady, where's your mask? Don't you know there's a fucking plague going on right now?' And you'll... you'll never believe what she said to me bro. She says "look, I think this whole thing is getting blown way out of proportion." Can you believe that, bro? The absolute fucking DENIAL these people live in. Give it a month and we'll be stacking bodies on the streets, man. Well, she goes on and says, "they had no toilet paper in the store. Can I get some?" and I told her, "your money is no good here you maskless scum." She says, "oh come on, just sell me a damn roll." Then, bro, she coughed. I swear it, man, she fucking coughed, and I had to get the fuck out of there. I practically ran her over with my cart, bro, and I might have knocked over a couple on the way out. I'm not going to get sick and die because some stupid asshole can't wear a fucking mask."
I couldn't see Chris, but I could envision his eyes bugging out of his skull as he relayed this information to me. I found it amusing, because, well, the whole time we had been in the truck together so far, I hadn't bothered to put on a mask. I'd wear one on my way out, because the CDC recommendations were starting to come out that people ought to, but only as a formality. Truth be told, I wasn't buying much into the hype either, and I probably would have had a pleasant conversation with that woman about the detrimental effects of having a 24/7 newsbrain. I looked back towards the Walmart, assuming by now that a riot had precipitated over all the fallen goods out front of the store, and then stared back into the wall of toilet paper between me and the poopycum man, and I said "she's probably right, man. I think you're taking this shit way too seriously. Those people are probably fighting over all the stuff you spilled from their carts because you're freaking out about every little thing right now."
"I'm FREAKING OUT? What, youi really think that I'm freaking out? You're joking, right, dude?" he said this quite loudly, admittedly with a hint of freaking out on his voice. "BRO. Have you SEEN what's going on out there? It's absolute chaos, man. This is it, I swear, bro, and here you are acting all nonchalant about it saying that I'M FREAKING OUT? I'm as cool as a fucking cucumber, bro, even with somebody like you beside me burying their head in the sand. Psh... I'm freaking out..." I replied, "yes, I have seen what's going on out there, dude. I'm not ignoring it, man. Everywhere I go, people are freaking out. Now, I have yet to see people dying in the streets like you keep saying is going to happen, but what I have seen is everyone losing their damn minds. It's like this with every kind of disaster man. The real disaster is when people go nuts." He wasn't having it. He remarked, "whatever, bro. You'll be eating those words. You're just going to become a disgusting fucking plague rat, too, and then I'ma have to dump your dead body out the side of the truck, because you're too stupid to actually take care of your health."
I let the subject lie. There was obviously no convincing the poopycum man. Like I said, whenever he gets something in his head, you're never going to get him to drop it until he's damn ready to drop it. As far as he was concerned, the world was, quite factually, coming to an end. It was the final curtain call for humanity, and the world was prepared to topple endlessly into the abyss, and he was positioning himself to stand on top of it all, its filthy overlord among the rubble. Something didn't add up to me, though, and I had to know. After a few moments of cautious silent, I said, "Chris, explain something to me." He murmured, "sup" through his gas mask, and I said, "the world is ending, right? I mean, according to you anyway, it's ending." And he said "what do you mean according to me? Look around you, bro. It's all coming down." I continued, "sure, whatever. According to you. Now, if it's ending, why would you go and sell your own horde in a time of scarcity? Like, isn't the toilet paper more valuable than the dollars in a shit hits the fan scenario? So, like... why are you selling your TP?"
He got very quiet. I could hear the gears turning in his head. The hampster was on the wheel, but the wheel was jammed, and despite its best efforts to turn, all it was generating was smoke. He stammered, "screw you", and kept driving in silence, unable to actually cite the solution to this conundrum. I figured, of course, that he was going to head to the next town with TP in stock, clear out the shelves, and repeat the process ad nauseum in a self-perpetuating cycle that would keep his stash stocked and simultaneously stuff his pocket full of dollars earned by the most cynical of disaster practices. Isn't it wonderful what fear does to people?
We traveled on that day, sure enough, hopping from Walmart to Krogers to drug store to Dollar General, and one by one, sure enough, Chris would go inside, clean out the shelves of toilet paper, and then position himself outside with a full shopping cart, scalping those poor, desperate people who didn't possess daddy's money who just wanted a clean ass during uncertain times. While I never had respect for Chris, hell, while I had nothing but disrespect for Chris, today it reached new and unfathomable lows as he stuffed his wallet at the expense of other people.
When we finally traded shifts and I took the truck over for the day, the rest of the shift passed in relative peace. Of course, Chris wanted to stop on our way repeatedly, even trying to incentivize me with money, but I knew that those were just words. Chris never did anything unless it directly benefitted Chris, and so it was fairly easy to surmise that any promise of lining my own pockets was just that: a promise, sure to come without follow through. And either way, I couldn't bring myself to participate in the frenzy that society had fallen in to. It felt wrong, wrong just like the cum coccoon that Chris had constructed in the passenger seat while I was driving yesterday, wrong like a copilot who beat his meat in the back of the truck while I drove, wrong on so many levels I could never bring myself to actually traverse those depths. No, we kept driving, while he begged and pleaded with me to pull over so he could go and conduct his nefarious, predatory business.
When finally my shift came to a close, to nobody's surprise, I once more had to rent a hotel room. Chris, of course, unable to retire in the truck cab anymore, had to rent one too. We stumbled in to the front desk. Chris, still in survival mode, floated the proposition of getting a room with two beds, which I immediately ignored, told the clerk that I wanted a solo unit, and went my own way. I retired for the evening, turning on the TV momentarily only to imbibe a little bit of the same darkness and paranoia that had transfixed the poopycum man before deciding I didn't really give a damn. I kicked off my boots, took a shower, and passed out for the night. When day broke that following morning, I headed back to the truck. It was a glorious morning alright - the sun was shining, the breeze danced lightly upon my face, and as I climbed inside and started my pre-drive checklist, I looked up to see Chris waddling back from the hotel, and stuffed under his arm was the roll of toilet paper from its bathroom.
And right about here is where I'm going to conclude this story my friends. I can hear the real world a calling my name, and I've got to go and take care of it, but you can all rest assured that I will be back soon enough with yet another story about our favorite odious troglodyte, Chris.
2023.03.18 16:42 PritchettRobert506 [HIRING] 17 Jobs in Columbus Hiring Now!
2023.03.17 12:58 Dangerous-Bag-7327 [HIRING] 24 Jobs in Jacksonville Hiring Now!
2023.03.17 12:11 Dangerous-Bag-7327 [HIRING] 20 Jobs in San Jose Hiring Now!
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2023.03.17 11:55 SchlesingerMindy323 [HIRING] 20 Jobs in San Jose Hiring Now!
2023.03.17 01:33 Significant-Air-388 New Job Anxiety
So after a year of being licensed and certified, I have finally landed a job! I’m going to be working at Kroger. I am all done with their training, which has left my brain a okie of mush. Tomorrow I start my first real shift in the pharmacy. What can I expect? What do I need to bring with me? I’m a nervous mess!
submitted by Significant-Air-388 to PharmacyTechnician [link] [comments]
2023.03.16 20:27 saintsweatshirt [RF] - How to Not Sound Racist While Standing Under a Confederate Flag
Twenty feet in the air blows a flag; red, white and blue. Its stars and stripes signal a certain pride to the traffic passing below. Its pole was dug at great cost to the owner, who is old and in declining health. It took him three days and two shovels to move the required amount of Michigan soil, rocks and roots. Lacking the funds to purchase a tall, aluminum flag pole, the flag’s owner, a man named Royce decides the next best thing would be to go to his buddy’s scrapyard and find the longest, straightest, least-rusted piece of pipe he can find. Knowing Royce’s plan, the scrapyard friend gives him the pipe for free. He even welds two chain links about three apart to the top of the pipe to serve as the flag’s anchors. As far as Royce is concerned this is the moment the pipe successfully becomes a pole. Getting the pole home presented a new set of challenges, chief among them was how to fit 20ft of something in 6ft of pickup bed. Royce’s 1994 Ford F150 is up to the task. To be considerate of other motorist, he tied a red rag onto the 12 foot of pole overhanging from his pickup. He gets home without incident, but the rag is gone.
In order to put the pole in place Royce backs his pickup into the yard so that it would tip from the bed of his truck into its pre-dug hole. If it was even five years ago Janice would be upset about tire tracks in her yard. Today it will take a miracle of concentration to get her to notice. Before setting the pole in place, Royce attaches the red and blue flag to the welded chain links. Realizing his pole lacks the pulleys most flagpoles have, it occurs to Royce that he will not be raising or lowering his flag anytime soon. Maybe that’s why the aluminum ones were so much more expensive, he thinks to himself. Adding a couple of bags of over mixed concrete he sets the pole in place. Doing his best near-sighted eyeballing, he holds the pole as the concrete hardens. After the concrete sets, Royce notices the pole leaning more towards the house more than it does to the road. Nevertheless he is satisfied. His pole is strong and mostly straight, proudly displaying the Stars and Bars of the Confederacy.
One of the first people to notice Royce’s new ornament of the old south is a woman named Hannah. Hannah has two dogs, a live-in boyfriend and a sister in California she talks to once a week. She volunteers at her local United Methodist Church even though his tells her friends from college that she is still an atheist. Once a week, on trash day she does her best to separate everything correctly, with most of her glass, plastics and aluminum making into their respective bins.
Arriving at home she finds her boyfriend Taylor standing in the kitchen. He is eating cold pizza and watching television on his lunch break.
“You are not going to believe what I just saw.” Hannah says. “You know that shitty looking house on the right side of the road if you are coming from Clarkston? It’s just before you turn into the sub?”
“I can’t picture it, but go ahead. What happened?”
“They have a Confederate flag flying in their yard! As in the actual Confederacy. As in General Robert E. Lee. As in we wear grey uniforms and think black people are property! And in Michigan! You know, that great bastion of southern pride…Song of the South, sweet potato pie and I move to Ann Arbor!?! WTF!?! They live hundreds of miles from anything remotely Southern. They’re in the Midwest. They are in the Big Ten. Why do they have that flag in their yard?”
Knowing Hannah is not done, Taylor attends to the work before him, and by work he means his pizza and the last 10 minutes of SportsCenter.
“It’s just the laziest way to be a racist.” continues Hannah. “Being a white supremacist in suburbs of Michigan is like being a misogynist at an all boys school. If you are going to a racist pig, at least have the courage to live somewhere the stakes might matter. I guess I have more respect for the Mississippi racist than the Michigan racist. Is that wrong to say? I feel wrong saying it? I don’t know if I should have said that.”
Meanwhile, satisfied with the work he has done for the day, Royce fires up a red Weber grill and throws on a trio of steaks. One for him, one for his wife, and one for a black lab named Wally, but whose full given name is Stone Wally Jackson. All three steaks will be served well done, with a side a microwavable fries and cold ketchup.
“You know”, Hannah says, “I’ve always had this fantasy about telling a racist piece of shit off to his or her face. What do you think I should say? Not saying I will confront them, but if I did, what would it be? What would you say?”
Still mostly into his pizza and TV, Taylor offers only slight resistance saying, “Maybe they aren’t from around here. It's terrible, but maybe the flag and what it represents really is just a part of their culture?”
“Yeah.” says Hannah. “So their whole thing is that the flag is a symbol of their heritage right? It’s not hate, it’s just a part of their past that they want to remember. What if I turn that argument against them? What I go over to that guy’s house and flip him off right in front of his face. Middle finger, right in his fucking mouth. And here’s the best part, if they offer any rebuttal, if they are offended in any way. Do you know what my response is going to be?”
Taylor does not. Or if he does seeing the fire behind his girlfriend’s eyes makes him too afraid to answer.
“With my middle finger right in their face I’m going to say ‘Why are you mad? This is not a symbol of hate, but heritage. My father flipped people off, and even his father and grandfather before them. All of them gave people the finger. So because it is my heritage, you can’t get mad.’ What do you think?”
Finishing his pizza, Taylor put his plate in the dishwasher, stacking it in line with the other three similarly sized plates ready to be washed.
“I’m not sure what to think. I think I trust in your instincts in this instance.”
“I’m gonna say something to them.” says Hannah without listening. “I’m going to go over there and confront whoever it is that lives there. Do you want to come?”
Taylor excuses himself from the occasion by mentioning how swamped he is at work, telling Hannah that he really needs to buckle down and make phone calls for the rest of the afternoon. “If I wasn’t so busy I’d come with you.” Hannah is unsure of his sincerity, yet resolute in her own. The drive from her house to Royce’s is short. She sits up straight in her seat listening to Rage Against the Machine in order to maintain her righteous anger. Her Subaru Outback splatters in the mud pulling into Royce’s rock and dirt driveway. Getting out of her car, she sees an older man attending to a smokey grill.
“Hey!” she calls from his driveway.
Royce, focused on his steaks, looks up.
Feeling herself unheard, Hannah walks closer. “Hey you at the grill! Yeah! Is this your flag? Huh? Is it? If that’s yours than fuck you!”
She stares at the man at the grill as he stares back at her. His stature grows small with each muddy step she takes through his yard.
Royce looks up again from his grill work and sees a young woman shaking her fist and yelling in his general direction. His initial reaction is to ask himself what he might have done wrong. Not thinking of anything, Royce asks, “Can I help you?”
“Yeah you can help me! You can help all of us by taking down that symbol of hate and oppression.”
“I’m sorry young lady you are going to have to speak up. I left my hearing aid inside.”
Hannah moves close enough to Royce to touch him. “I said I want you to remove that flag in your yard. It gives our neighborhood a bad name. People will think we’re all a bunch of racists.” Hannah points at the flag and asks, “But maybe you are ok with that?”
Still unclear as to what the young lady wants, Royce thinks about running in the house to grab his hearing aids. But after seeing her point to his new flag, Royce thinks that maybe if he talks about it enough, he will have answered her concern.
“Well I put that up earlier today. Took me a while to dig the hole and pour the concrete. It’s not as straight as I like it, but you know, do what you can I guess?”
Hannah feels sweat forming on her lip and brow, as her argument goes nowhere. She again asks if Royce is ok with being known as a racist. To which he hurriedly replies, “Yeah uh huh. You know, I don’t hear so good young lady. I’m gonna run inside and get my hearing aids. Forgive me, I’m doing my damnedest.”
Immediately, as if falling backwards through a tunnel, Royce falls to the ground. His left arm pulls hard against his chest as he loses all consciousness. Hannah runs over and does her best to help him back up. Unable to lift him, she yells for help but there appears to be no one else home. She runs back to the car to get her phone. Hannah reaches the emergency dispatcher.
“9-1-1, What is your emergency?”
“There is a guy, he lives not too far from my house. I think he is having a heart attack. He just collapsed right in front of me.”
“Ok Ma’am, don’t worry. I’m going to help you out. Can I get your name?”
“Hannah.”
“Ok Miss Hannah, my name is Latisha. Do you know your location?”
“I’m not too sure. I’m on M-23, not far from the McDonals and Kroger outside Clarkston. I don’t know the address. I don’t live here. We’re right off the road. We’re underneath a oh…umm…Confederate flag. You can see it from the road.”
“Mmm…426, this is Dispatch. We have a possible medical emergency in the vicinity of M-23 and Ratalee Lake Road. Be advised, victim is under a Confederate flag. Ma’am is the victim breathing?”
“I think so. It’s hard to tell. He’s not moving. I just want you to know, that I don’t live here and I don’t have anything to do with the flag.”
“It’s ok Ma’am. Can you tell me his name?”
“I actually came over here to confront whoever it was that put it up. It’s just that when I did he passed out right in front of me.”
“Ma’am, can I have the victim’s name?”
“Oh, I don’t know, we’ve never met. This is the first time something like this has ever happened to me.”
A small, bent over woman in an over-sized blue gown comes out of the house. She looks at Hannah, then at Royce, then at her yard, “Oh no, someone has tracked up my yard.” She heads back inside.
“Hannah, the emergency team is on their way. Will you please stay on the line with me?”
“Yes.”
“Great. Paramedics should be arriving soon. Is there anyone else there on the premises?”
“Oh, his wife is here, at least I think it is his wife, but I don’t think she’s all there. She looked at him and left.”
“Hannah can you check on the victim again? Can you see if he is breathing?”
“Hang on…I think he is. It’s just really slow. You know, I had this plan. I was going to come over him and I was going to come over here and shove my finger in his face. I was going to flip him off for having a symbol of hate in our neighborhood.”
“That’s great Ma’am. Do you know if the victim has any health issue?”
“Does being racist count? I’m joking, but not really. It really is a mental health issue. There’s been so many studies done that link racism and mental health. I hope he’s ok. I mean, I hope he is physically ok and that this can compel some compassion out of him. I mean he looks harmless enough. You just can’t ever tell what’s going on inside someone. My plan was to flip him off and tell him that giving people the bird isn’t hateful because my father gave people the finger, and so did his father. So it’s not hate, it’s my heritage. You know, flip their argument around on them. Do you think that would have worked?”
“I really can’t say Ma’am.”
“Look, I’m sorry what is your name again?”
“Latisha.”
“Look Latisha, I'm an ally, ok? I don’t have anything but contempt for these people. I think racist should be locked up and forced into racial sensitivity training. And I’m not just an anti-segregationist. I believe in institutional racism. I see redlining and gerrymandering as on-going symptoms of this country’s problem with race. I’ll even go so far as to say that reparations are probably the only way this country atones for its racist past. Personally I think every white family that sends one of their kids to college should also pay for a black kid to attend that same school. That’s the only way we make ourselves whole. Black History Month is great, but we need to do better. So I’m here to do the real work Latisha. I want to make a better country for people like you.”
“Ma’am I’m white.”
“Excuse me.”
“I’m not black. I’m white. My parents are named Larry and Patrica.”
“Oh…I’m sorry. It’s just that Latisha sounds like an African American name. I guess I was just thrown off by how it sounded. Now that you mention it, you don’t sound very African American.”
“And how does an African American sound ma’am?”
“Hey…hey Latisha come on. Be a buddy. That’s not fair. You know that’s not what I meant.”
“How was I supposed to know what you meant?”
“I guess you weren’t. I guess I just had an assumption in my head of a certain type of woman who answers phone calls all day. And then you said your name was Latisha. I guess my brain formed this picture of you as, you know, the stereotypical, sassy African American woman who does those types of jobs. I’m sorry if I offended you. I’m realizing now I too make assumptions about people and if I did that to you, again I am sorry.”
“What do you mean sassy? My tone and demeanor has been professional throughout.”
“No I wasn’t saying you are being sassy, just that there is a stereotype of a sassy, African American woman, you know, who works in an office, and she’s says things like ‘Go ‘head!’ and ‘I’m not the one!’ She’s usually a bigger gal.”
“So I’m fat now.”
“No I don’t mean you. I mean that’s what the stereotype looks like. You are your own beautiful person Latisha. I’m sure you are beautiful no matter what you look like. I think everyone is beautiful and worthy of respect and dignity, unless you’re a racist piece of shit with a Confederate flag in his yard.”
“My grandfather was from South Carolina and he flew a Confederate flag in his yard.”
“Huh. Well shit.”
“Ma’am I suggest that you stay on the line until paramedics arrive. If the victim gets worse you can tell me, but we do not have to talk.”
“No, yeah. I think that would be best.” says Hannah. She and Latisha remain on the phone with one another, neither saying a word for another five minuets before the ambulance arrives. Hannah hangs up on Latisha without a word. A paramedic asks Hannah if he has any allergies or health issues. “I don’t know. I’ve never met him before. I just got here.”
“You mean you just happened upon a guy having a heart attack?”
“Kinda.”
“Kinda huh? Well the police will be here in a minute to ask you a few questions. Let’s go boys!” Royce is loaded onto a stretcher and into the without any response. Hannah speaks to a nice city cop officer with a tattoo sleeve on both arms. He takes her statement and personal info before going inside to talk to Royce’s wife, dismissing Hannah to go home. As soon as she turns the key in her ignition, Rage Against the Machine starts bounding through her speakers. She turns the music off, hoping the polite office didn’t here anything. Back at home Taylor is again in the kitchen looking for snacks.
“Hey how did it go? Did you tell off that racist piece of shit?”
“I don’t know.” says Hannah. “It didn’t go like I thought it would.”
“Well, what happened?”
“I went over there, and was starting to go into my whole thing, but he was having a tough time hearing me because he was an older guy. When all of a sudden he falls down to the ground. So I called 911 and an ambulance came and I think he’s dead.”
“What? Really?”
“Yeah. He said he was doing his damnedest to understand me, and that he was going to get his hearing aids, and he just fell over. I think I was the last person he ever saw.”
“Wow.” says Taylor. “You definitely did your damnedest on that guy.”
“I don’t ever know what that means.” admits Hannah.
“I guess I don’t either.”
———————————————-
The funeral for Royce Lee O’Neal is being held six days after he raised a Confederate flag in his front yard. In attendance are loving members of his family, several dozens of his friends and acquaintances, lots of guys from the Rotary club, a couple members of the Local 713 Union of Pipe-fitters. Also in attendance is the person who indirectly caused his fatal heart attack. On her way to the funeral, Hannah drives past Royce’s house and notices the flag is no longer flying from its perch, leaving a naked, crooked piece of pipe standing 20ft tall with grassy tire tracks running up to it. The funeral home is a couple of towns further north, closer to where Royce grew up. Hannah finds her Suburu a parking spot among a flock of muddy pickups and beat-up SUVs. Not wanting to draw any attention, Hannah shows up to the funeral right as it begins (11am), sits as far back as possible, and debates slipping out a little early. The two story funeral home smells of floral death; flowers mixed with the formaldehyde and furnished with heavy couches and chairs in evergreen and navy. The stripped wallpaper peels from the corners, freshly varnished floorboards snap and creek underfoot. It’s as if the entire house stands in-between life and death, an American portal between this world and the next one. Hannah can see Royce from the back of the parlor. It is an open casket service which means everyone is either looking at him or trying to avoid looking at him.
Standing near Royce’s head and pillow is a wispy, arched man in a suit one size too wide and one size too short. Hannah guesses him to be the minister, the man charged with saying something significant about her racist neighbor. After a few hymns, the minister reads from the Book of Psalms. He then offers a short homily. His words are not charged with religious rhetoric about the end of days or any need for zealous evangelism. Hannah notes that if anything the preacher’s words about Royce are rather sweet. He tells a couple of funny stories, mentioning even the time Royce dressed in drag at a Halloween party. The congregation laughs. And when he tells of the time Royce took in one of his grandsons, practically raising him, Hannah hears sniffs and Kleenex being pulled from the box.
Afterward the sermon, a young woman in maroon dress sings Go Rest High on that Mountain. Hannah has never heard the song before and is moved to tears by the chorus. The service ends sober and sincere and full of hope, a tone anyone would want their funeral to possess. Hannah picks up her purse ready to escape quietly out the back. However she notices a line forming at the front of the room as people shuffle by the casket for one last glance at Royce. She turns around and joins the line. Everyone shuffles, their heads bowed, their eyes bright. Hannah reaches the front and peers into the steel, white box, its insides lined in silk and cotton. Royce looks peaceful and content with his current predicament. Gone is the agony Hannah saw on his face a few days ago. He wears a light blue suit, probably purchased for the occasion. In that moment, Hannah wonders how she will be buried. What dress will she wear? Where will her final resting place even be? Next to mom and dad in Florida? Perhaps somewhere here in Michigan? Maybe next to ol’ Royce. She is glad she has come. If nothing else she and Royce share a final moment together.
Hannah leans in a little closer, but as she does she notices something inside, covering the bottom of Royce’s body like a blanket. Its colors do not match the decor of the casket, or Royce’s suit. The blue of the covering is much darker, the red very bold, and lined with white stars in the pattern of an X.
“I will never understand you Royce. I don’t even know if I want to.” Hannah leans closer, close enough to kiss the corpse if she wants. “But I’m doing my damnedest.”
submitted by saintsweatshirt to shortstories [link] [comments]
In order to put the pole in place Royce backs his pickup into the yard so that it would tip from the bed of his truck into its pre-dug hole. If it was even five years ago Janice would be upset about tire tracks in her yard. Today it will take a miracle of concentration to get her to notice. Before setting the pole in place, Royce attaches the red and blue flag to the welded chain links. Realizing his pole lacks the pulleys most flagpoles have, it occurs to Royce that he will not be raising or lowering his flag anytime soon. Maybe that’s why the aluminum ones were so much more expensive, he thinks to himself. Adding a couple of bags of over mixed concrete he sets the pole in place. Doing his best near-sighted eyeballing, he holds the pole as the concrete hardens. After the concrete sets, Royce notices the pole leaning more towards the house more than it does to the road. Nevertheless he is satisfied. His pole is strong and mostly straight, proudly displaying the Stars and Bars of the Confederacy.
One of the first people to notice Royce’s new ornament of the old south is a woman named Hannah. Hannah has two dogs, a live-in boyfriend and a sister in California she talks to once a week. She volunteers at her local United Methodist Church even though his tells her friends from college that she is still an atheist. Once a week, on trash day she does her best to separate everything correctly, with most of her glass, plastics and aluminum making into their respective bins.
Arriving at home she finds her boyfriend Taylor standing in the kitchen. He is eating cold pizza and watching television on his lunch break.
“You are not going to believe what I just saw.” Hannah says. “You know that shitty looking house on the right side of the road if you are coming from Clarkston? It’s just before you turn into the sub?”
“I can’t picture it, but go ahead. What happened?”
“They have a Confederate flag flying in their yard! As in the actual Confederacy. As in General Robert E. Lee. As in we wear grey uniforms and think black people are property! And in Michigan! You know, that great bastion of southern pride…Song of the South, sweet potato pie and I move to Ann Arbor!?! WTF!?! They live hundreds of miles from anything remotely Southern. They’re in the Midwest. They are in the Big Ten. Why do they have that flag in their yard?”
Knowing Hannah is not done, Taylor attends to the work before him, and by work he means his pizza and the last 10 minutes of SportsCenter.
“It’s just the laziest way to be a racist.” continues Hannah. “Being a white supremacist in suburbs of Michigan is like being a misogynist at an all boys school. If you are going to a racist pig, at least have the courage to live somewhere the stakes might matter. I guess I have more respect for the Mississippi racist than the Michigan racist. Is that wrong to say? I feel wrong saying it? I don’t know if I should have said that.”
Meanwhile, satisfied with the work he has done for the day, Royce fires up a red Weber grill and throws on a trio of steaks. One for him, one for his wife, and one for a black lab named Wally, but whose full given name is Stone Wally Jackson. All three steaks will be served well done, with a side a microwavable fries and cold ketchup.
“You know”, Hannah says, “I’ve always had this fantasy about telling a racist piece of shit off to his or her face. What do you think I should say? Not saying I will confront them, but if I did, what would it be? What would you say?”
Still mostly into his pizza and TV, Taylor offers only slight resistance saying, “Maybe they aren’t from around here. It's terrible, but maybe the flag and what it represents really is just a part of their culture?”
“Yeah.” says Hannah. “So their whole thing is that the flag is a symbol of their heritage right? It’s not hate, it’s just a part of their past that they want to remember. What if I turn that argument against them? What I go over to that guy’s house and flip him off right in front of his face. Middle finger, right in his fucking mouth. And here’s the best part, if they offer any rebuttal, if they are offended in any way. Do you know what my response is going to be?”
Taylor does not. Or if he does seeing the fire behind his girlfriend’s eyes makes him too afraid to answer.
“With my middle finger right in their face I’m going to say ‘Why are you mad? This is not a symbol of hate, but heritage. My father flipped people off, and even his father and grandfather before them. All of them gave people the finger. So because it is my heritage, you can’t get mad.’ What do you think?”
Finishing his pizza, Taylor put his plate in the dishwasher, stacking it in line with the other three similarly sized plates ready to be washed.
“I’m not sure what to think. I think I trust in your instincts in this instance.”
“I’m gonna say something to them.” says Hannah without listening. “I’m going to go over there and confront whoever it is that lives there. Do you want to come?”
Taylor excuses himself from the occasion by mentioning how swamped he is at work, telling Hannah that he really needs to buckle down and make phone calls for the rest of the afternoon. “If I wasn’t so busy I’d come with you.” Hannah is unsure of his sincerity, yet resolute in her own. The drive from her house to Royce’s is short. She sits up straight in her seat listening to Rage Against the Machine in order to maintain her righteous anger. Her Subaru Outback splatters in the mud pulling into Royce’s rock and dirt driveway. Getting out of her car, she sees an older man attending to a smokey grill.
“Hey!” she calls from his driveway.
Royce, focused on his steaks, looks up.
Feeling herself unheard, Hannah walks closer. “Hey you at the grill! Yeah! Is this your flag? Huh? Is it? If that’s yours than fuck you!”
She stares at the man at the grill as he stares back at her. His stature grows small with each muddy step she takes through his yard.
Royce looks up again from his grill work and sees a young woman shaking her fist and yelling in his general direction. His initial reaction is to ask himself what he might have done wrong. Not thinking of anything, Royce asks, “Can I help you?”
“Yeah you can help me! You can help all of us by taking down that symbol of hate and oppression.”
“I’m sorry young lady you are going to have to speak up. I left my hearing aid inside.”
Hannah moves close enough to Royce to touch him. “I said I want you to remove that flag in your yard. It gives our neighborhood a bad name. People will think we’re all a bunch of racists.” Hannah points at the flag and asks, “But maybe you are ok with that?”
Still unclear as to what the young lady wants, Royce thinks about running in the house to grab his hearing aids. But after seeing her point to his new flag, Royce thinks that maybe if he talks about it enough, he will have answered her concern.
“Well I put that up earlier today. Took me a while to dig the hole and pour the concrete. It’s not as straight as I like it, but you know, do what you can I guess?”
Hannah feels sweat forming on her lip and brow, as her argument goes nowhere. She again asks if Royce is ok with being known as a racist. To which he hurriedly replies, “Yeah uh huh. You know, I don’t hear so good young lady. I’m gonna run inside and get my hearing aids. Forgive me, I’m doing my damnedest.”
Immediately, as if falling backwards through a tunnel, Royce falls to the ground. His left arm pulls hard against his chest as he loses all consciousness. Hannah runs over and does her best to help him back up. Unable to lift him, she yells for help but there appears to be no one else home. She runs back to the car to get her phone. Hannah reaches the emergency dispatcher.
“9-1-1, What is your emergency?”
“There is a guy, he lives not too far from my house. I think he is having a heart attack. He just collapsed right in front of me.”
“Ok Ma’am, don’t worry. I’m going to help you out. Can I get your name?”
“Hannah.”
“Ok Miss Hannah, my name is Latisha. Do you know your location?”
“I’m not too sure. I’m on M-23, not far from the McDonals and Kroger outside Clarkston. I don’t know the address. I don’t live here. We’re right off the road. We’re underneath a oh…umm…Confederate flag. You can see it from the road.”
“Mmm…426, this is Dispatch. We have a possible medical emergency in the vicinity of M-23 and Ratalee Lake Road. Be advised, victim is under a Confederate flag. Ma’am is the victim breathing?”
“I think so. It’s hard to tell. He’s not moving. I just want you to know, that I don’t live here and I don’t have anything to do with the flag.”
“It’s ok Ma’am. Can you tell me his name?”
“I actually came over here to confront whoever it was that put it up. It’s just that when I did he passed out right in front of me.”
“Ma’am, can I have the victim’s name?”
“Oh, I don’t know, we’ve never met. This is the first time something like this has ever happened to me.”
A small, bent over woman in an over-sized blue gown comes out of the house. She looks at Hannah, then at Royce, then at her yard, “Oh no, someone has tracked up my yard.” She heads back inside.
“Hannah, the emergency team is on their way. Will you please stay on the line with me?”
“Yes.”
“Great. Paramedics should be arriving soon. Is there anyone else there on the premises?”
“Oh, his wife is here, at least I think it is his wife, but I don’t think she’s all there. She looked at him and left.”
“Hannah can you check on the victim again? Can you see if he is breathing?”
“Hang on…I think he is. It’s just really slow. You know, I had this plan. I was going to come over him and I was going to come over here and shove my finger in his face. I was going to flip him off for having a symbol of hate in our neighborhood.”
“That’s great Ma’am. Do you know if the victim has any health issue?”
“Does being racist count? I’m joking, but not really. It really is a mental health issue. There’s been so many studies done that link racism and mental health. I hope he’s ok. I mean, I hope he is physically ok and that this can compel some compassion out of him. I mean he looks harmless enough. You just can’t ever tell what’s going on inside someone. My plan was to flip him off and tell him that giving people the bird isn’t hateful because my father gave people the finger, and so did his father. So it’s not hate, it’s my heritage. You know, flip their argument around on them. Do you think that would have worked?”
“I really can’t say Ma’am.”
“Look, I’m sorry what is your name again?”
“Latisha.”
“Look Latisha, I'm an ally, ok? I don’t have anything but contempt for these people. I think racist should be locked up and forced into racial sensitivity training. And I’m not just an anti-segregationist. I believe in institutional racism. I see redlining and gerrymandering as on-going symptoms of this country’s problem with race. I’ll even go so far as to say that reparations are probably the only way this country atones for its racist past. Personally I think every white family that sends one of their kids to college should also pay for a black kid to attend that same school. That’s the only way we make ourselves whole. Black History Month is great, but we need to do better. So I’m here to do the real work Latisha. I want to make a better country for people like you.”
“Ma’am I’m white.”
“Excuse me.”
“I’m not black. I’m white. My parents are named Larry and Patrica.”
“Oh…I’m sorry. It’s just that Latisha sounds like an African American name. I guess I was just thrown off by how it sounded. Now that you mention it, you don’t sound very African American.”
“And how does an African American sound ma’am?”
“Hey…hey Latisha come on. Be a buddy. That’s not fair. You know that’s not what I meant.”
“How was I supposed to know what you meant?”
“I guess you weren’t. I guess I just had an assumption in my head of a certain type of woman who answers phone calls all day. And then you said your name was Latisha. I guess my brain formed this picture of you as, you know, the stereotypical, sassy African American woman who does those types of jobs. I’m sorry if I offended you. I’m realizing now I too make assumptions about people and if I did that to you, again I am sorry.”
“What do you mean sassy? My tone and demeanor has been professional throughout.”
“No I wasn’t saying you are being sassy, just that there is a stereotype of a sassy, African American woman, you know, who works in an office, and she’s says things like ‘Go ‘head!’ and ‘I’m not the one!’ She’s usually a bigger gal.”
“So I’m fat now.”
“No I don’t mean you. I mean that’s what the stereotype looks like. You are your own beautiful person Latisha. I’m sure you are beautiful no matter what you look like. I think everyone is beautiful and worthy of respect and dignity, unless you’re a racist piece of shit with a Confederate flag in his yard.”
“My grandfather was from South Carolina and he flew a Confederate flag in his yard.”
“Huh. Well shit.”
“Ma’am I suggest that you stay on the line until paramedics arrive. If the victim gets worse you can tell me, but we do not have to talk.”
“No, yeah. I think that would be best.” says Hannah. She and Latisha remain on the phone with one another, neither saying a word for another five minuets before the ambulance arrives. Hannah hangs up on Latisha without a word. A paramedic asks Hannah if he has any allergies or health issues. “I don’t know. I’ve never met him before. I just got here.”
“You mean you just happened upon a guy having a heart attack?”
“Kinda.”
“Kinda huh? Well the police will be here in a minute to ask you a few questions. Let’s go boys!” Royce is loaded onto a stretcher and into the without any response. Hannah speaks to a nice city cop officer with a tattoo sleeve on both arms. He takes her statement and personal info before going inside to talk to Royce’s wife, dismissing Hannah to go home. As soon as she turns the key in her ignition, Rage Against the Machine starts bounding through her speakers. She turns the music off, hoping the polite office didn’t here anything. Back at home Taylor is again in the kitchen looking for snacks.
“Hey how did it go? Did you tell off that racist piece of shit?”
“I don’t know.” says Hannah. “It didn’t go like I thought it would.”
“Well, what happened?”
“I went over there, and was starting to go into my whole thing, but he was having a tough time hearing me because he was an older guy. When all of a sudden he falls down to the ground. So I called 911 and an ambulance came and I think he’s dead.”
“What? Really?”
“Yeah. He said he was doing his damnedest to understand me, and that he was going to get his hearing aids, and he just fell over. I think I was the last person he ever saw.”
“Wow.” says Taylor. “You definitely did your damnedest on that guy.”
“I don’t ever know what that means.” admits Hannah.
“I guess I don’t either.”
———————————————-
The funeral for Royce Lee O’Neal is being held six days after he raised a Confederate flag in his front yard. In attendance are loving members of his family, several dozens of his friends and acquaintances, lots of guys from the Rotary club, a couple members of the Local 713 Union of Pipe-fitters. Also in attendance is the person who indirectly caused his fatal heart attack. On her way to the funeral, Hannah drives past Royce’s house and notices the flag is no longer flying from its perch, leaving a naked, crooked piece of pipe standing 20ft tall with grassy tire tracks running up to it. The funeral home is a couple of towns further north, closer to where Royce grew up. Hannah finds her Suburu a parking spot among a flock of muddy pickups and beat-up SUVs. Not wanting to draw any attention, Hannah shows up to the funeral right as it begins (11am), sits as far back as possible, and debates slipping out a little early. The two story funeral home smells of floral death; flowers mixed with the formaldehyde and furnished with heavy couches and chairs in evergreen and navy. The stripped wallpaper peels from the corners, freshly varnished floorboards snap and creek underfoot. It’s as if the entire house stands in-between life and death, an American portal between this world and the next one. Hannah can see Royce from the back of the parlor. It is an open casket service which means everyone is either looking at him or trying to avoid looking at him.
Standing near Royce’s head and pillow is a wispy, arched man in a suit one size too wide and one size too short. Hannah guesses him to be the minister, the man charged with saying something significant about her racist neighbor. After a few hymns, the minister reads from the Book of Psalms. He then offers a short homily. His words are not charged with religious rhetoric about the end of days or any need for zealous evangelism. Hannah notes that if anything the preacher’s words about Royce are rather sweet. He tells a couple of funny stories, mentioning even the time Royce dressed in drag at a Halloween party. The congregation laughs. And when he tells of the time Royce took in one of his grandsons, practically raising him, Hannah hears sniffs and Kleenex being pulled from the box.
Afterward the sermon, a young woman in maroon dress sings Go Rest High on that Mountain. Hannah has never heard the song before and is moved to tears by the chorus. The service ends sober and sincere and full of hope, a tone anyone would want their funeral to possess. Hannah picks up her purse ready to escape quietly out the back. However she notices a line forming at the front of the room as people shuffle by the casket for one last glance at Royce. She turns around and joins the line. Everyone shuffles, their heads bowed, their eyes bright. Hannah reaches the front and peers into the steel, white box, its insides lined in silk and cotton. Royce looks peaceful and content with his current predicament. Gone is the agony Hannah saw on his face a few days ago. He wears a light blue suit, probably purchased for the occasion. In that moment, Hannah wonders how she will be buried. What dress will she wear? Where will her final resting place even be? Next to mom and dad in Florida? Perhaps somewhere here in Michigan? Maybe next to ol’ Royce. She is glad she has come. If nothing else she and Royce share a final moment together.
Hannah leans in a little closer, but as she does she notices something inside, covering the bottom of Royce’s body like a blanket. Its colors do not match the decor of the casket, or Royce’s suit. The blue of the covering is much darker, the red very bold, and lined with white stars in the pattern of an X.
“I will never understand you Royce. I don’t even know if I want to.” Hannah leans closer, close enough to kiss the corpse if she wants. “But I’m doing my damnedest.”
2023.03.16 17:53 Dangerous-Bag-7327 [HIRING] 15 Jobs in Jacksonville Hiring Now!
2023.03.15 17:34 Noskyofficial [HIRING] 20 Jobs in Houston Hiring Now!
2023.03.15 15:49 yoyoyoyo__ Is it easy to move between different brands?
So my boyfriend is in the process of applying to jobs across the country and there’s plans for me to go with him. I’ve researched the areas he’s applying to and noticed that none of them have Kroger stores. They have Smiths and King Soopers in those areas. Is it hard to transfer from a Kroger to those stores? I haven’t brought it up with management because nothing’s quite set in stone and we’re horrible short staffed as is. My ASM is on the verge of an aneurism and I don’t want to stress him out for no reason.
submitted by yoyoyoyo__ to kroger [link] [comments]
2023.03.15 02:16 a_heckin_chonker316 Is dropping out a good idea?
I'm 14 and I know this is gonna sound stupid because I'd be "jeopardizing my education" if I drop out, but school is just too stressful, and I'm not learning the things I should be learning. So I'm thinking about dropping out. My mom is planning on moving after my ninth grade year ends and we discussed it and she said that she would just not sign me up for tenth grade is I didn't want to go. I've already been told that I have a high chance of getting a job in the summer time at Kroger and I did the math and working as just a bagger for an entire year would land me around 15k at the end of that year, so I'm thinking about just doing that, but I don't know if I should actually just go through with it. I want to, but everyone in my family besides my mom will bash and make fun of me for it, because everyone except my grandpa made it either all the way through school, or to the 11th grade. I just want an outliers opinion on the situation. Much appreciated in advance.
submitted by a_heckin_chonker316 to Advice [link] [comments]
2023.03.13 15:48 PerfectJarrett These jobs will never have help if they think $9 is an acceptable salary. Burlington Coat Factory rejected me lol
I got rejected within 20 seconds of the phone interview. I work part-time but I'm still applying for jobs and looking for full time employment. I applied through indeed for a full time cashier position. The salary listed on the Burlington website was like $12.50 but I figured with my 8 years of retail experience that I'm at least worth $14 an hour. I made $14 an hour full time at Kroger.
I have a Business Administration degree and am a certified administrative assistant but I prefer working in retail. Anyway, the manager called and was like they only hire part time and I probably wouldn't want the job because it would only be for $9 an hour with 12-20 hours a week. I barely had time to formally introduce myself lol.
$9.00 is the new $7.25. Even Chick-fil-A, Walmart, and McDonald's are paying at least 12 to 14. Hell, Kroger is starting new employees off at $14.50 now. I know I'm not that unreasonable. 12x9 is $108. Why would I drive to work just for $100 dollars? These companies need to realize that the cost of living goes up every year.
Stop advertising for something you're not hiring for. If I would've known, I never would've even applied for the job.
submitted by PerfectJarrett to retail [link] [comments]
I have a Business Administration degree and am a certified administrative assistant but I prefer working in retail. Anyway, the manager called and was like they only hire part time and I probably wouldn't want the job because it would only be for $9 an hour with 12-20 hours a week. I barely had time to formally introduce myself lol.
$9.00 is the new $7.25. Even Chick-fil-A, Walmart, and McDonald's are paying at least 12 to 14. Hell, Kroger is starting new employees off at $14.50 now. I know I'm not that unreasonable. 12x9 is $108. Why would I drive to work just for $100 dollars? These companies need to realize that the cost of living goes up every year.
Stop advertising for something you're not hiring for. If I would've known, I never would've even applied for the job.
2023.03.11 23:59 Floofyland Is it bad to be to eager when applying?
My last job was at a grocery store and I absolutely loved it, so I was so excited applying to my local Kroger store. During my interview for the bakery department, they straight up told me how their department has the highest turnover rate, they’re understaffed, and overworked. I enthusiastically said that’s no problem with me, I’m ready for that kind of challenge. I had open availability and everything. I came home to an email saying I didn’t get the job. What went wrong?
submitted by Floofyland to kroger [link] [comments]
2023.03.11 14:03 Dangerous-Bag-7327 [HIRING] 20 Jobs in Los Angeles Hiring Now!
2023.03.11 12:25 irregulargnoll In need of grocery money to get me through next week
Hello all,
I was between jobs recently. While I was able to keep my bills up to date and get a tank full of gas, I had to sacrifice some of my grocery funds. My first paycheck comes next Friday, but my pantry is getting bare. If I could have approximately $50 in funds for groceries, it would mean the world to me. I have Paypal and there are Fred Meyer (kroger) and Safeway local to me if you would prefer to give a gift card in lieu of cash assistance.
Thank you for taking the time to read this.
Edit: Here's an Amazon wishlist of shelf stable items. I've tried to be mindful of cost since non-Fresh items tend to be bulk and priced higher than retail per unit. https://www.amazon.com/hz/wishlist/ls/EY9APUOI1JW9?ref_=wl_share
submitted by irregulargnoll to Assistance [link] [comments]
I was between jobs recently. While I was able to keep my bills up to date and get a tank full of gas, I had to sacrifice some of my grocery funds. My first paycheck comes next Friday, but my pantry is getting bare. If I could have approximately $50 in funds for groceries, it would mean the world to me. I have Paypal and there are Fred Meyer (kroger) and Safeway local to me if you would prefer to give a gift card in lieu of cash assistance.
Thank you for taking the time to read this.
Edit: Here's an Amazon wishlist of shelf stable items. I've tried to be mindful of cost since non-Fresh items tend to be bulk and priced higher than retail per unit. https://www.amazon.com/hz/wishlist/ls/EY9APUOI1JW9?ref_=wl_share