If you don’t know what I am talking about, you are too young to be reading this. If you do know what it is, you were a pain-in-the-ass teenager, weren’t you?
Not that I would know.
One of the perks us cool managers get are these tiny parking stickers so we don’t have to pay for parking. In its way, free parking is great, although, I wish I could resume some semblance of my former hours so I could walk home in the evenings. I really miss my walks.
But, back to the stickers.
These are hidden away, given out under cover, like sticker gold, as it were. (Hey, parking is not cheap in my city.)
Gathering these stickers is the last thing the other assistant manager and I do before we leave. The night before last, we huddled together in the darkened corner where the stickers are hidden, fumbling with the multiple sheets of the things, carefully trying to separate one for each of us from the industrial-strength adhesive.
We are tired. We joke about how people will talk if they see us in the dark corner together. Finally, he hands me my allotted sticker for the night.
“Hey, here’s your, um, wait…what did they call it back then? You know?”
I laughed aloud.
“Oh, you mean blotter acid?”
What retired, hidden nether land of my poor tired brain did THAT come from–and so quickly? Scary.
“Yeah, my parents met at Woodstock,” he said, as if that explained everything.
Which it does.
I can readily admit that I was too young to go to Woodstock, and even Mr. Restaurant Gal let that one pass him by. This also means I am younger than the other assistant manager’s parents.
There is a God!
I may be a bit older than most everyone on the staff, but at least I am not old enough to be the staff mom.
Besides, what mom would talk blotter with her kids?