Well, I didn’t imagine I would be creating a separate post for this place so soon. However, in digging through my notes and journal entries, I soon realized I have much, much more material about this store than expected. Then again some of this stuff I probably haven’t thought about in 20 years or so.
Though never an actual employee at this location, this was easily the one I “guest starred” at the most, i.e. was called over to lend a hand at most frequently. Due to this, plus eventually working with some of these characters elsewhere, plus having a couple of close friends (Travis Tyo and Dan Bandman) who were employed here in the late 1990s, I know a great deal about what was going down in this store, for a nice long stretch during our collective heyday(s) there.
Regarding the meat department, you would hear constant rumors in the late 90s/early 00s that they were going to finally “bust up” that crew back there. They had six full-timers who had worked together a mighty long time and were pretty much a bulletproof unit, so it seemed, despite being a dysfunctional team. I liked most of them, but still, the results speak for themselves. And this is possibly at least partly attributable to the fact that in all my many, many hours inside that store, even shopping there quite a bit, I never once laid eyes on the store manager, whose name was Mark Balamian – this I know because his picture hung back there, on a wall behind the customer service desk, the entire time. So what this guy was ever actually doing remains a mystery. As for the meat department, they were doing good enough volume at this store to keep cranking and remaining afloat, but the profit margins were not great. A couple of that notorious six pack were pretty good employees, despite whatever else was going on in their lives; the others, not so much.
The only one of the bunch I didn’t like much was Gene, this haughty old guy, easily the oldest of the gang. The first ever time I showed up to help over there – and it’s important to remember they called me, it wasn’t as though I was campaigning around town looking for places to pitch in – I arrived after my own shift had ended at Bethel Road. Gene takes issue with the fact that I have come here not wearing a collared shirt, and grouses openly about it, to me and whomever else. Meanwhile at least half this crew were pretty much notoriously drunk most of the time, which is why they needed so much help in the first place. In fact, one of the guys was well-known for drinking in his car on break, the other would simply walk over to Arlington Cafe.
And this went on for years, in more or less plain sight. Of course, Kroger is a union atmosphere, so to some extent you’re always going to have people getting away with murder. I have to say, though, this is one profound attitudinal shift I have seen regarding such behavior, in short order, during my working years: up to at least the early 1990s it would have been considered cool to drink in your car, but that someone smoking pot in that situation had a serious problem; ten years later, those opinions had completely flip-flopped, in the minds of most people.
The other five, though, were all at least pretty much cool people. When that long rumored day finally arrived, and they broke up this gang, two of them (Dennis and Melissa) were sent to Bethel. A third, Carrie, would arrive still later. I had extensive interactions with all five of them over the years and one or two become fairly good friends…or something. Not to mention some of the others elsewhere around the store, at least three of which I can think of also wound up working with me, either at Bethel or elsewhere. So you will be hearing much more about these people elsewhere in these pages, oh yes, if you haven’t already.
The remaining meat department crew that came and went over the years, meanwhile, were a mostly riotous bunch that I got along with greatly. One of the guys, David, was banging this chick that worked elsewhere in the store, and the two of them always claimed that they once had sex in this broken Salvation Army drop box in the front of the parking lot. They were both short and apparently it was busted to where you could just open the door and readily climb inside. Also, though I bumped into Travis on two or three occasions, working roughly the same shift (he was in the deli department, though, at the opposite end of the store), I never once crossed paths with Dan here. We think this is because he was working the hours (part-time nights, closing meat) that I would otherwise have been called into – so if he was on hand, they probably didn’t need me.
As far as seafood went, Masood ran this shop for many a year, and was basically considered the best in the biz during his tenure. They would eventually promote him to a role called “special assignment” where he became this kind of roving instructor for the zone, would pitch in at whatever struggling store needed his help the most. A great guy, although I’m proud to say his services were never required at any place where I was a department manager. Replacing him was this Vince dude who was really cool and also did a solid job. I would actually spot Vince every so often, for years to follow, shopping at the Wild Oats where I later worked, and he might catch me up to date on the latest intrigues then.
Currently I am combing through my files for the year 2000. So here’s what I’ve come up with for the dossier thus far…
April 25, 2000
I arrive here after working my day shift at Morse Road, then heading home to regroup. Masood is waiting for me behind the counter when I show up. “I didn’t know you made head seafood!” he cheers – the last time I saw him, I was still in the meat department at Bethel. Now I laugh and tell him that I actually might be leaving Morse soon, to take over this shop at my old store.
“You guys are getting Eddie, right?” I say. After losing the head seafood job, he was supposed to come over here and work as a meat clerk.
“Eddie quit a few days ago,” Masood tells me, “we already had him on the schedule here.”
“For next week?”
“Yeah,” Masood nods, “he only had three or four days to go over there, and he couldn’t make it.”
“Must have gotten another job,” I muse.
“No, there was no other job.”
“That’s too bad,” I remark, “Eddie’s my friend.”
“Well, yeah,” Masood agrees, “he was a nice guy, good with the customers, set a nice case. And if they were having problems with him, they said he needed retrained, why didn’t they send him over here to be trained? I’ve trained lots of people.”
After spending most of my night here reading the Lewis & Clark book that John loaned me, munching on the popcorn and ramen noodles, I close up shop at nine and split. That hilarious Steve character was closing meat, I covered his counter for a short stretch earlier while he went “number two,” as he described it, and then he dipped out to smoke a cigarette before returning. I forgot to ask him how that date went with the blonde he met in that bar.
May 9, 2000
Close here after leaving Morse Road. David’s here for most of it. It’s a slow night, so he leaves at 8 and I close up shop alone. Will Hines is an assistant manager here now, and Julie just transferred here as well – both worked at Bethel at some point when I was there.
May 12, 2000
Head over here after leaving my own store. Working this time with me is a hilarious hillbilly cat I’ve not met before named Mike Sturgill. He isn’t a redneck or anything, just a good ol’ country boy, with tattoos and a mustache and a drawl. Extremely nice guy, though – I walk away thinking he’s one of the coolest people I’ve met in a long time.
His favorite three words are snag, swing, and unhook, in that order. Just listening to him talk is enough to send me into laughing fits, and not in any condescending way, either – I’m just getting a genuine kick out of his conversational manner.
“You got all the new codes memorized yet?” I ask him at one point, in reference to this new n’ improved computer system they recently dropped into these scales.
“No, not all of ’em,” he says, “I was just gettin the old ones down and then they unhooked these new ones on me.”
He had been head cutter at the Big Bear store on Bethel, but left over some kind of dispute. It was just as well, really, though, as the Bear is just about history. And after just one shift, I think I’m already getting a feel for his unique lingo.
“Swing that chicken out and fill it up,” he instructs me at one point. Another time, it was, “I’m gonna snag me a shake at McDonald’s. I don’t know what it is, but I gotta snag about three or four of ’em a day.”
So he leaves on break, bound on foot for the golden arches in front of this store, and I stand behind the counter cracking up. We’re fairly busy, as people are getting geared up for Mother’s Day. Even so, business in this store always dies right at 7, it’s like some weird curfew on old people around here: half the clientele is senior citizens, and they all do their shopping early.
Then Mike’s giving me the riotous tale of how that Steve dude recently got the axe – albeit not presented as comedy whatsoever, told in the driest, most serious form imaginable. It’s just I who can’t stop laughing. Steve had gotten canned, of course, for taking one hour, two hour breaks, then coming back reeking of alcohol. Apparently you have to rack up some tenure to get away with that here. Anyway, according to Mike, Steve called one time claiming that he had broken his foot.
“But see, Steve’s sister is a registered nurse, alright?” Mike says.
“Yeah,” I nod, encouraging him to continue.
“So what he did was he swung in here with his fake cast for about six weeks, then he unhooked it every day out there in the parkin lot, soon’s he got off.”
We close down the shop and leave right at 9.
May 13, 2000
Arrive here after day shift at Morse. When I get back to the meat department, Mike is still hanging around. He was supposed to be off at 4, but they’re getting absolutely crushed, so he stays over long enough to let David take a break.
“You gonna snag a shake?” he asks David.
“Yeah,” David grins, “I’m gonna snag a shake.” And then presumably walks up to McDonald’s in order to accomplish this.
“I’m supposed to be gone,” Mike explains to me, “but David’s gonna swing on a thing, so I’m gonna stay over a little while.”
Fifteen minutes later, David returns, Mike leaves, and we get positively dismantled back here, the people won’t stop coming in. Now, here in this isolated bubble we call Upper Arlington, these old yuppies have lots of money to burn, and as a result, we sell virtually nothing but filet mignon out of the service case all night, to the tune of $12.99 a pound. These actually look terrible for tenderloins and it still doesn’t matter, they still fly out of here – not bad for a steak I feel is vastly overrated. Anyone I’ve ever worked with in the meat department prefers either a ribeye or a strip steak, and yet these well-to-do customers out here on Bethel and Henderson do back flips over the filet. Probably because it’s the most expensive cut, which is reason enough for them to buy it, which in turn perpetuates it remaining at this price.
David leaves at 8, having done what he could to shore up this place, as do I before bailing at 9. Still, this place looks like hell and Will (still the coolest manager I’ve worked for at Kroger) says he’s going to talk to Dennis about why these filets look like crap. Just a bad batch, I tell him – although again, I don’t see how much it matters, the way these puppies are selling.
May 14, 2000
After my day shift at Morse, I slide over here to close. Mike is on duty with me again, and proves to be just as comical as always.
This time, as I wash dishes, he’s ranting about Dennis and the rest of the morning crew, Ed in particular. He points out Wednesday’s schedule to me as evidence, and though I really don’t need any convincing, I can see clearly what his main gripe is, one of the reasons they keep calling me in to close, actually. Though there is a big inspection on Wednesday, granted, nonetheless, Dennis has himself, Ed, Melissa and Carrie all coming in at either 4 or 5 in the morning. And this is actually extremely common here. Management at every other store I’ve worked at has preached that no one be allowed in before 8, and though many openers generally sneak around and push that up to 7, maybe 6, I’ve never seen such audacity, scheduling not one or two but your four main employees in by 5 a.m. at the latest.
But actually, everything about Dennis and this meat shop is quite amazing. It’s amazing how dirty they get away with keeping everything…it’s amazing how crappy the cases always look…it’s amazing how no one with seniority ever works beyond 3 p.m. as far as I’ve ever seen. Myself, I think this is all hilarious, though, cracking up as Mike continues adding more fuel to the fire with his stories. And I do appreciate the overtime. Still, a remodel is scheduled here soon, at which point they’re shortening the service case a bit. This is a necessary move, and yet, it’s bound to bring sales down somewhat; when that happens, many speculate this might bring Dennis’s hallowed status to a screeching halt.
“…so when I came in at 8 this morning,” Mike is saying, “Ed had already been here three hours, and he hadn’t got nothin done, he’s havin me fillin the grinds, fillin the service case, fillin the wall case, doin this, doin that, so I finally says to him, man, I’m only one person! And he’s all pissed off, he’s in here kickin boxes and cussin and shit and I tell him, it’s alright, Ed, wontcha go on out to the car and have yourself another beer!“
“What did he say about that?” I ask.
“He didn’t say nothin,” Mike shrugs. Earlier, Mike had alleged that, “half of em back here smokes dope,” on their breaks, and while I’m not sure about that, this business about Ed drinking in his car all the time is what we’ll be polite and call a highly popular rumor. Regarding Dennis, I’m thinking of something Tom told me a year or two ago. According to him, Dennis “used to be one hell of a cutter,” but then stopped caring somewhere along the line, got a divorce, started drinking heavily, end of story. I like Dennis, the same as I like the others, for the most part, but you can’t help but side with David and Mike (and the many others, now departed) who’ve been stuck working night shifts here over the years.
“It’s all about seniority,” I tell Mike, “if you’ve been here long enough, they kind of look the other way, pretend they don’t know about it…”
He nods and says, “everyone back here knows about it.”
Business as usual tapers off around 7. Mike is able to leave at some point, and I close her down by myself again.
June 3, 2000
After shift at Bethel, once again here working with ever hilarious and awesome Mike S. “Whoever it was that swung out with the huge idea of havin grinds sent in, that was about stupid,” he says, concerning this new policy of having us order as much prepackaged ground meat as possible, to cut down on our labor grinding it in-store. We are still doing quite a bit of it, of course, though only maybe half as much as before.
At another point, he’s describing for me his recent bout with the flu: “first it swung in here (holds throat), then up to my sinuses.”
“Dennis still making breakfast every day?” I ask, and point at the skillet.
Mike nods, says, “yeah. Now, Steve used to snag filet mignon and strip steaks out of the service case all the time & cook em up for himself, so Dennis had to hide it for awhile.” By this, he means hide the skillet.
I laugh and recall, “he used to cook up eggs, sausage….”
“Everything,” Mike finishes, “and always somethin spicy, with Dennis it’s gotta be spicy. If he’s swung out all night swallowin alcohol, then he’s lookin for somethin spicy. Says it helps soak up his hangover, which if it does, it does, you know.”
June 4, 2000
After leaving Bethel, I come over here. It was looking pretty ugly here yesterday, but this is beyond ugly. Dennis has let them run out of everything by not ordering enough, and then apparently not bothering to contact other stores to try and transfer what they need. Okay, they always have these picnic blankets on each end of the service case, to fill up space (a necessary measure, as their service counter is way too big for the traffic at this point, and is one reason the remodel is scheduled), but then Mike has had to lay a third one in there, between the pork and beef, because there’s absolutely nothing else to put in that case. Meanwhile, I’m cracking up to see an entire spare rib slab rotting underneath, in the space below that customers can’t see.
“You guys need to clean this case out!” I say to Mike.
“Well, now, if I don’t do it, then it don’t get done,” he replies. And I’m sure that’s true.
I stay until 7:30, then he’s on his own.
June 10, 2000
After leaving my store, I wind up working about 5 hours here. David stays until 7 but after that I’m alone. This place is an absolute joke as usual. In the middle of Dennis’s service case, where a 3 bowl by 3 bowl set should have been, two of the bowls have nothing in them but a mountain of kale and some barbecue sauce, while where the third bowl in the center row should have been, instead there’s this avocado plant or some shit sitting there, with little zucchini slices surrounding it. Hilarious.
David and I get hit pretty hard, but cleanup is done on time and come 7, things run pretty smoothly from here on out.
June 11, 2000
Following a comical day at Bethel, I’m over at Henderson again for the real gut buster. Dennis’s schedule is hilarious, he has himself in at 6, Ed in at like 7, and David at 9. That’s it. Carrie has it in writing, as part of her hire, that she never has to work a Sunday, and Mike asked for the weekend off (which I’d say he more than deserves). But what about Melissa? And what about hiring more help? This place cracks me up, it’s an unrelenting comedy show to even set foot back inside this department.
Well, in theory, anyway. In reality we get our asses kicked. On the schedule, which is a computer printout, the 7th name on the list actually says “Question Mark.” Whoever this person is, nonetheless, they have him/her listed as working 1-9 today. Only later did they apparently decide that Mr. Mark would be me – or a combination of me and this Ted cat, also brought in from another store.
And I’m grateful he is here. After David leaves at 5 (having knocked out cleanup, thank god), it’s just me and Ted. He’s this old school cat from the Parsons Avenue store, says he has 21 years experience, and he sticks around until 7.
Dennis’s marinated kale bowls and avocado sprout sit untouched from yesterday, which cracks me up to no end. The customers pour in like nothing I’ve seen before, they keep coming and coming and coming. But Henderson Road is funny – just when you think you can take no more, you’ve reached your last straw, that magical 7 o’clock hour hits, and bam, in an instant, post-gold-rush mining town in here.
Up until then, however, they’re buying filet mignon like nobody’s business – even though we are selling a grade lower than usual here, Select, yet still charging them $12.99. No one seems to notice or care. Ground round is on sale for $1.69 lb and that flies out the door, hamburgers, brats, we would have sold a mountain of kabobs too if they’d actually made any.
Mike Nelson drifts through here to shop, which is surprising. He’s living clear out in Baltimore (Ohio) with his brother until the smoke clears and he figures out what he’s doing next with his life. Meanwhile, he says his theoretical current but probably soon to be ex wife has an apartment at Reed & Henderson. They’re entertaining guests over there and he needs six steaks.
“I don’t want to spend a lot of money, but I don’t want to be cheap, either.” After I point out some Select ribeyes on sale, he grabs those, saying, “okay, you’re the boss.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“Well, you know more about meat than I do, anyway.”
“Maybe,” I laugh and then tell him, “try to come around a little more often!”
“Okay buddy, I’ll try,” he says and then splits.
I want to squeeze in a break before Ted leaves, and slip out at 6:30 to grab two donuts from the bakery’s self help case (50 cents each), and while I’m here, Mary comes up to me to chat. These situations often have a push/pull element to them until something maybe happens – I was flirting with her for a few weeks there, but kind of gave up on that cause. Now she seems to be quite obviously flirting with me.
“Poor thing. Don’t you have a home?” she jokes.
“No,” I tell her.
“I’m starting to think you don’t,” she replies.
We stand chatting for a little bit, although talk soon devolves into boring old work discussions. She’s groaning about the salmon sale, having to cut up whole ones for customers anyway after they were sold at the $2.99 lb. price. At some point I realize I’m kind of staring at her chest and hope she didn’t notice.
Later on, after Ted has left, I’m out stocking chickens. Jammed in between two big cardboard boxes on this cart – don’t ask me how in the world it possibly could have gotten here – I find Dennis’s freaking name badge! DENNIS TRACY it says, and then, in smaller print below, HEAD MEAT CUTTER. Giggling to myself, I race back to the meat department, having already decided where I’m going to put this thing.
On the bulletin board, someone had cut out a newspaper article and pinned it there, one which shows this cartoon of a cow, wearing a scholar’s cap and glasses, pointing at different cuts of meat. Each piece has a little caption beneath as to what quality it is, where it comes from, et cetera. I tape Dennis’s name badge to the cow’s left breast, which fits perfect and looks awesome.
I wheel the chicken cart in and start closing service, which doesn’t take long because they are also out of wax paper around this joint, to cover the meat with – third time in as many weeks I’ve encountered that here. Out in the back hallway, though, two night stock kids are listening to License To Ill, and that helps motivate me as I hustle to shut down on time. Which I do, closing right at 9 and blowing out of here.
June 16, 2000
Close down here after leaving Bethel. Mike is in an especially comical mood, at one point I overhear him singing along to the Boston song playing on their radio (they are permitted rocking out to such here, at all times; at our store, we have to pick and choose moments based upon which managers are around – Mary Carol for example would not allow this): takin my time I’m just a moooovin on, you’ll forget about me after I’ve been gone he is crooning in his thick Southern accent. Then later on he’s sighing, “lordy, lordy, I feel like I’m forty.”
He leaves at 7. Taking the trash out afterwards, I see this orange forklift, someone has painted THE GENERAL LEE on it and a rebel flag, numerals 01. But then some fool without the good sense to leave a fine work of art alone has gone ahead and written THE INDIMIDATER (sic) beneath that.
