duck-shaped pain

No, not my friend M. from high school, the sister of T., the odd guy S. worked with at his extremely tragic phone job. No, not my first grade teacher, either, even though I ran into her on a plane (!) a few years back. She asked me what it was that I was doing for a living those days, and I wasn't doing anything particularly fascinating in or out of my job (data entry) at the time, so I just told her I was a writer. [1]

Naturally, I'm talking about my stainless-steel and rubber coffee cup.

I found it on Sunday, while I was poking through the garage for a nail and/or ladle. It was up really high, right on the shelf over the workbench, where all the coffee cans full of old nails and screws are kept. [2] I'm not sure how it got there � I don't remember ever having it here at the house, but there it was.

I hadn't seen it in about two years. I had since replaced it, thinking it was a goner, with another travel mug featuring pictures of fish drinking coffee on it. Sure, it came from a well-known coffee chain, but hey! Fish drinking coffee! So now I have two mugs.

As you can tell from the link, it's a pretty standard-issue mug. There's tons of them like it out there, all the same. What makes mine special is the way in which I got it.

I got it from this guy, G. He was employed by this other coffee chain in the Denver area, whose name started with a D. He had worked his way up the ranks, from surly barista to tip-enforcing cashier to absent, I'll-be-out-back-smoking-if-someone-needs-me assistant manager.

D. Coffee had several outlets downtown, some of which were doing well, some of which were going under quickly. One store in particular, on 18th Street, near the federal courthouse, was doing especially badly. So the powers that be decided to close it down. There was no advance warning given at all � the employees just got the order to close up shop one day and not come back, not ever.

Because of the sudden closing, there was plenty to clean up in the store, and D. Coffee decided to give G. the job of clearing out everything. Which wouldn't have been a terrible task, if properly compensated, and if done on time.

No on both counts, though. Normal hourly wage applied and they waited for about a month after the store closed to send him in there to clean it.

So he got there, and found that the electricity has been off ever since closing day. The place smelled warm and sour, and dust and scum was everywhere. There was still money in the cash register, personal effects left behind by the former employees were strewn about and there was dishes in the sink and trash in the trash can, all in advanced stages of decay.

G. didn't realize how dire the situation was until he opened up the walk-in freezer. At one time, this contained milk, half-and-half and ice cream. After a month without electricity, it contained a six-inch layer of fuzzy, green something.

This seems as good a time as any to point out that the only cleaning supply G. was provided with was a big bucket of bleach. And a mop.

So he started throwing bleach at the noxious green slime. Which was a bad idea, in retrospect, for the fumes of the bleach combined with the smell of a whole freezer of rotten dairy products to smack G. squarely in the noggin.

G. rushed outside, out to where there were actually people walking around on their lunch breaks, and started projectile vomiting all over the streets of Denver. This went on for a long time � probably for a shorter time than it seemed, since Vomit Time feels like the longest time in the world � and ended up with him blacking out on the sidewalk.

Finally, he came to and went in to finish the job, however nauseated. While in the process of cleaning up, he found a whole case of metal travel mugs, which D. Coffee sold for about $25 each. What the hell, he thought, I deserve a souvenir.

So he gave everyone he knew one of these mugs, and told them the story of him vs. the six inches of green slime. It was a good story, and it was repeated from person to person all that summer. Every time I drink out of this mug (which is a good one, and keeps coffee warm for about two and a half hours), I think of bleach and fuzz and projectile vomiting, and get a warm feeling deep inside.

[1] Actually, the first thing that came to my mind, for some reason, was "spy." Which, at the time, was about as true as "writer" was. These days, they're still on about the same level � I write some things, sometimes, and I spend shameful amounts of time peeking at what's in my employer's freezer (8 lbs. of toffee), medicine cabinet (20 jars of vitamin C tablets) and other places.

[2] Everyone who owns or uses a garage has one of these cans, I'm certain.

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