Memories are made of shit (plus the Chocolate Milk Break Story)

For reasons I'd rather not go into at the moment, I have been inspired to tell
a few stories about my high school days. And why not? Memory is fleeting and
those who drink and do more of other drugs than I are much more likely to
forget the little things.

The other side of the coin, of course, is confabulation. This is the spontaneous
ability some people have to completely dis-remember past events putting
themselves in the storyline of events they were otherwise completely not party
to.

My buddy Mark S does this so often and so thoroughly that I swear he must be
schizophrenic.

For example, For about 6 months in high school, I worked at Bishop's Buffet. It
was a pretty great place to work except for the asshole who ran the place, Mr.
Poulter, his gay sidekick, Joel, and Liz Rollins, front counter manager and mother
of the biggest jerk offs in my high school, the Rollins twins.

This place was like Elephants Graveyard for old people who would flock into this
place and pay way too much to stand in line and gather their own food onto a tray
cafeteria style because it reminded them of the old days for some odd reason. The
food was OK. As an employee, I ate for half price and if a buddy was behind the
counter I could get two Salisbury steaks covered in gravy so thick no one noticed
how much meat was hidden beneath its greasy depths.

Everyone but the managers were cool too. Occasionally, some lazy front counter
bitch would ask the dishwashers to get her some ice while we were still in the middle
of our rush. But that was easy enough to resolve. The busboys would complain
because the line was backed out the window when it was they were putting one
tray with one cup on the conveyor to begin with. Also easy to resolve.

Things got busy, especially on Sundays, but we were a happy crew of teens who
knew how to blow off steam. Dunking a dude in the pot tank was one. We had this
enormous jacuzzi bathtub for all the pots and pans to soak in. It was disgusting.

Stealing food was a good way to feel like you were on top as well. Trays and trays
of orange rolls, cookies and cakes would come back to us for disposal. We would bite
the orange glaze off a roll then throw it like a grenade at the guy on the other end
of the washing machine. Good times.

But the single best thing we did for release was the CMB, the Chocolate Milk Break.
We had a walk in fridge with two doors facing in two different directions. In the fridge
was all the stuff any restaurant fridge might have including case after case of
wholesome delicious half pints of chocolate milk.

It was our wont to steal chocolate milk by the armful and either drink it in the
fridge where we could theoretically be caught at any moment or hide away with
it in the men's locker room and pound down three or four in a row. When we
were done, the dead soldiers couldn't be tossed in the trash where they might
be discovered so we through them up in the ceiling tilings. It's the typical human
approach to waste disposal: convenience now so that future generations might
pay the price.

This was 1984 and the practice of stealing chocolate milk and ditching the evidence
like a dead hooker had been going on for years, maybe as many as 8 years.
Eventually those little bits of milk at the bottom of each carton began to add
up until the smell became noticeable, then annoying, then unbearable.

Poulter and Joel had no idea what the causing the stink. They repainted the men's
locker room, they had the sewer checked out. Then they suspected a rat ...
literally. They finally checked up in the ceiling tiles to see if something had
died up there. You can imagine what they saw.

Now the first thing any suspect knew that they dynamic duo was on to them
was when they began asking the men to one at a time go "check the rat traps"
up in the ceiling. It was amateur psychology at its lame-ass best. As each
employee would stick his head up into the ceiling, he was expected to see
the empty cartons. Poulter and Joel would watch his reaction to see if they
caught a tell-tale sign of guilt.

My friend Todd M was one of those charged with "checking the traps." He
managed to pass the test with a stunning performance, "Hey you know
there's a bunch of milk cartons up here?"

He later reported to me what he saw: "There were thousands of milk
cartons up there. It was a mountain of them. I can't believe they didn't
collapse the ceiling there so many of them."

Oh for fun.

Now Mark S was never there. He didn't work at Bishop's. I can't remember
him setting foot in there while I was there. I don't doubt he ate there at
some point, but I am pretty sure I never saw him there. That didn't stop
him from saying last week that he fully remembered going into the bathroom
at Bishop's and personally smelling this overpowering odor on the assumption
that the men's room I was talking about was the one the customers used.
It was not. In fact they were no where near each other. It is literally impossible
for him to know what I was talking about since I never even smelled that
horrid stench and used to stand right underneath it.

"I'm sure I smelled it," said Mark S.
"No you didn't," replied I. "You're fucking delusional, mate."