Brownie Points

My crew sped off into the Hawthorne sunset to a much larger, classier Shopping Center. After a little bottle dropping in the satellite stores, Little Boss T promised to teach us how to “work a Wal-Mart,” the only time when he advised cherry picking and subtlety. I dropped a deuce (two bottles) in an insurance office before my crew and I swam into Wal-Mart like sharks, each stealthily taking a cart “as if we’re shopping.” Little Boss T warned us that sometimes Loss Prevention Agents pose as Wal-Mart shoppers, so we needed to learn to sniff those people out with small talk and avoid them, so we will not be thrown out of Wal-Mart. He did instruct us on how to respond if someone attempted to throw us out of a Wal-Mart (which in my case, would be almost like someone trying to deport me from the United States of America, another place I have god-given right to be).

“First of all, we’re not breaking the law.”

“Really?” I asked “so who remits sales tax to the Franchise Tax Board?”

Little Boss T responded with the same confused, constipated look I aroused when I mentioned Lynyrd Skynyrd. “The office does. It’s not like we’re selling Avon or Mary K. They have to warn you at least one time before they call the cops.” He coaxed another FNP to sidle up to an unsuspected Wal-Mart shopper in the Crafts Aisle.

The rest of us circled nonchalantly, pretending not to observe the transaction or look for heat. I pinched myself as I waited. “Am I dreaming? Could I really leave a Wal-mart with more money than I brought in with me? What a welcome change from working at IBM!”

No scores at Walmart that day, but the evening was still young. Little Boss T stressed again how much he recommended that we go “night merching.” Since my crew had wasted several hours in Starbucks, Staples, In and Out, and Hot Wings I decided to go solo. If my friends came down from LA, I would pitch everywhere we went, if not, I could always hit the streets alone.

I could see this working out. I could picture my own offices in West Hollywood and Palm Springs. I could see my own team of bottle droppers. I could do the little speeches like Boss J, either as a nouveau riche North Carolina redneck or an educated person, whatever they wanted. I could see using the office at night to resurrect my chocolate company. I could see myself creating $8 an hour jobs attaching butterflies to boxes by night for people who couldn’t take the uncertainty of bottle dropping.

I recognized the brainwashing techniques as the same ones used by the military, corporate America, gangs, churches, and various other spiritual group: droning rhythmic music, deprivation of food, water, and sleep, creation of jargon and a “language” unique to the group, a hierarchy, hazing. I understood how and why the model worked. I enjoyed the pimp/ho experience without actually having to engage in a sex acts or lap dances with the customers.

I rushed home to show Banford’s empty room. My determination to be a good mother to Sassy Hancock Jones battled with my determination to be a good provider. I vowed not to skimp on our standard evening walk due to work. When we returned at 10:00pm, my stomach grumbled, but I vowed to get to Kinko’s before it closed to Xerox a rental application and drop at least two more bottles before 9:00 the next morning.

I broke a cardinal rule of bottle dropping when I decided not to pitch to the manager at Kinko’s, thinking it could get “weird” and that perhaps I should not shit where I eat. I continued down the Boulevard, pitching to everyone I encountered. I naively thought I had the gay guys and the parking lot attendants, but alas no. I pitched to a man who I thought could be sitting on his stoop, although he let me know he was “sort of homeless now,” but complimented my sales techniques and wished me luck.

I pitched at least 12 people without success as the clock edged towards midnight. I knew I had to get some sleep in order to get to the office by nine the next morning for a full day of more pitching, and felt tiredness from my other nocturnal activities of the week: doing taxes for my chocolate company, showing my room for rent, fighting with March, going out to dinner and clubs with friends, and being a single mom.

My eyes drifted towards the gas station a block from my house. I spied a Black guy in the parking lot. Our eyes locked. He started walking towards me, in what seemed like slow motion, as I could barely wait for our encounter, to see which of us would speak first.

“Tell me something,” I whispered licentiously.

“What?” he responded eagerly.

“What cologne you like?,” as I brandished a bottle like a badge.

“Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. Ah thought you called me over here ‘cause you wanted to buy a phone. I sell cell phones.”

“What? I don’t need no phone. I have a phone.”

“Hey,” he whispered licentiously back. “I sell weed.”

“So do I.” I said

“You want some weed?”

“Why would I need to buy weed from you?” I demanded. “I have a pound of at home.”

He recoiled to the gas station. I stormed off to my house to contemplate all natural shelf life extension for my regular chocolates as well as for the “Petit Scores,” I’m developing for the dispensaries. Sometimes you need to get high in a dainty, discrete, AND delicious way. Like tonight, for example.