I’ve had a lot of odd jobs in my day. Bounced around from place to place wherever I saw opportunity. Took a side job here, a side job there. I once worked for Chezik Bell Honda in Iowa City and after a while discovered that my paychecks were bouncing! How big of a WTF is that? To this day I haven’t been paid for two months worth of slave labor I gave that place. Whatever. I will have my vengeance in this life or the next Chezik Bell.
I’ve held down the graveyard shift at a plastic bottle factory. I’ve had jobs placing bricks on a conveyor belt. I’ve voluntarily dressed up like a clown and cooked stir fry on a grill cranked up to 500 degrees. In public mind you. I’ve met and worked with multiple ex cons. Drug addicts? No problem. Sex offenders? I call them co workers. I’ve answered to a boss so bipolar the company kept someone on staff that made daily trips to refill his prescriptions. Pretty much have seen it all and done it all at the lower end of the US economy.
Of all the titles I’ve held the most unique by far was “Gas Station Clerk”. I was employed at a Handimart in Marion Iowa during my late teen years. What a gig that was! I was there all hours of the day and night. Mornings, afternoons, even the occasional graveyard shift. At this prestigious position you’re expected to stand behind a cash register and scan various items patrons wish to purchase. Not a lot of brain power went into the job. That’s probably why I liked it.
When you’re working a job in direct contact with the public you’re introduced to all types of crazy ass people. The normal people just get in and out and on with their business. The crazy people buy their intoxicant and chat you up. Get to know a crack head sometime. It’s an enriching experience. It was at this job that I was introduced to Frieda. We called her Forty Ounce Frieda.
Forty Ounce Frieda was a woman cast straight from a Too Short song. A nappy headed, strung out, 85lb black woman who used beer, crack and weed as fuel each day. I got to know her well as a customer at the Handimart in Marion around 2001-2002. A harmless lady who lived the life of someone on an episode of Intervention. During her six daily trips into my store I sold her one of three things each time.
1. A crack pipe
2. A blunt rap
3. A 40 ounce beer
The 40 ounce beer was the most common purchase hence the nickname, Forty Ounce Frieda (thought of that one all by myself).
Now you may say, “You can’t buy a crack pipe at a convenience store, come on!”
Wrong again bucko, you sure as hell can! There is this company that markets tiny fake flowers that are encased in a small glass tube. The company distributes these flower tubes and the gas station sells them under the guise of a decorative flower. I’ve never had much interest in crack myself, but from what I hear users of the drug are able to craft an effective pipe using the glass tube that comes with the flower.
This leads to the funny interaction where the crack user approaches the counter and asks you for a specific color of flower, as if it matters.
“Nah, I’ll take the purple one this time,” Frieda would say probably thinking I had no clue what she was buying the flower for. You got me Frieda! I always figured you were a horticulturist anyways!
Another humorous aspect of that job was how you were able to get a feel for the pulse of the illegal drug trade in the area. The weed slangers were easy to spot a mile away. Some came in so frequently I would pull the blunt package from behind the counter the second I saw them enter the store. I knew what they wanted. Surprisingly enough Frieda rolled with about 3 of the 4 kingpins in the area. She would enter the store some evenings reeking so strongly of marijuana I couldn’t contain my laughter as I sold her a Swisher.
Forty Ounce Frieda also struggled to understand that there are state laws in place that prevent businesses from selling alcohol at all hours of the day. This meant her 2:30 am forays into the beer cooler left her mightily disappointed. I’ll never forget the morning Forty Ounce Frieda stood outside at 5:45 am and poked her head inside the store every three minutes,
“Is it 6 yet? Can I buy my drank?”
Forty Ounce’s mood varied greatly depending on her level of intoxication. Some days she’d walk in high as a kite gleefully shrieking and carrying on about whatever was racing through her head. Other days she’d shuffle in with her hair completely blown out wearing the stained hospital robe she liked to rock on weekends. Those days she got testy. Completely forgetting the decent rapport she’d developed with our staff she’d lash out in a crack induced mania.
One summer day Frieda was in a particularly bad mood and came into the store cackling like a wild hyena.
“Y’all air pump stealin’ the air outta my tire!”
What an unusual complaint I thought. How was this possible? Being a helpful gas station clerk I walked outside with Forty Ounce herself to see what I could do about the problem. Carefully avoiding turning my back to her I approached the problematic bicycle tire. I’m no mechanic but filling up a tire is something I can handle. Bicycle or car I can do it.
Through her Old English haze Frieda saw the pump itself robbing her of air that rightfully belonged to the tire. Her problem, believe it or not, was simple. The tire was losing air each time Frieda attached the pump because she had failed to turn the compression machine ON. With the machine off, all Forty Ounce did each time she attached the nozzle was drain the tire of air.
“My tire flat and I can’t catch no bus!” Frieda screamed at me.
With a flip of the switch the machine came to life and Forty Ounce Frieda was able to cross one more problem off her list.
This was a women with many problems. People like Frieda attracted all types of good company in east Marion. The type of company that would leave you to die in a burning house. Don’t believe me? Listen to this.
Forty Ounce is having a wild time one night a decade ago. On this day she had made around a dozen trips into the local Handimart to refill her 40oz prescription and feed her rock cocaine habit. They must have been having a hog wild party over at Frieda’s crib this evening.
The legend goes like this. Forty Ounce Frieda is partying with three other low lifes at the Grandview apartment complex she called home. During the late stages of the party Frieda decides she’s going to fry up an old fashion country home style meal. She fires up the stove and gets cooking while her companions slip into drunken unconsciousness. At some point during the cook off Frieda must have passed out because when one of her friends woke up the apartment was engulfed in flames!
What happens next makes this a pantheon level tale. Rather than alert Forty Ounce Frieda, who was sleeping on the kitchen floor oblivious to the blaze, the three friends grabbed all the drugs and ran out of the apartment. Having been left for dead by her friends Frieda slept off her buzz while her apartment burned to the ground around her.
Luckily the ending to this story isn’t tragic. An observant neighbor noticed the fire and smoke coming from Frieda’s place and summoned the fine men of the Marion Fire Department. The firemen arrived just in time to whisk Frieda from the burning kitchen and prolong her burden on the welfare system.
As the firemen carry Forty Ounce Frieda away from the inferno she snaps to consciousness and decides she’s unhappy with her saviors. Rather than being thankful, Frieda starts fighting and kicking the firemen trying to get back to her vices. Efforts to explain the situation to Forty Ounce fell on crack clogged ears.
To me, the story about the fire sounded unbelievable because I heard it through a third party. Sure enough the CR Gazette covered it the next day making it authentic in my mind. Forty Ounce Frieda in all her glory being dragged out of her burning residence fighting tooth and nail the whole way. I can honestly say it was a pleasure calling her my customer.