Jobs # 7 (Royal Liquors)

I struggle to write about this time in my life. I was a wandering soul with a degree in Fiction Writing from Kansas City, MO. I had left the non-profit world for now and was fortunate to live among good friends for affordable rent. My mid-late twenties were both intensely fun and chaotic. I probably should have gotten into a lot more trouble than I did.

Yesterday, I was listening to one of my favorite comedians, Andy Kindler. He asked, “Why the hell are you telling your story?” I laughed out loud and said to myself, “It’s all I got!”

I didn’t even want to write for years. For the previous three years, I had written a short story every week, which would be openly analyzed in a workshop setting during class. The very thought of it now makes my skin crawl. I would actually go back to school in this setting much later. I guess I thought I could take it.

Besides punk lyrics for bands, though, I wrote very little between 2008 and 2012. I focused on music and having a good time. Of course, you need money, though.

I have lived in the Troostwood neighborhood of Kansas City since 2007, with three notable exceptions. The first was a big, weird house in South Hyde Park. Three of my best friends moved in with me circa 2010.

It turned out to be a horrible living experience with an awful landlord, but we had a good time. We had a full bar set up in the dining room, taken from a country club. We played music loudly and generally left each other to our own devices. My dear friend P. (R.I.P.) was one of these dudes. I feel like I’ll write a lot about him later as well.

Some other close friends worked at a place called Royal Liquors. They needed people. I was 26 and in need of money, so it sounded perfect. I would spend the next two years bouncing between two locations, clerking unbelievable people, and trying not to lose my mind.

I met every type of drunk person. From the even-headed regular buying airplane shots to the bombastic rando's demand for Chivas that we did not have, and refusing to leave. Already drunk kids with fake IDs, people I knew from high school who did not recognize me, and strange, sad loners who would weep upon purchase.

I worked with a few fantastic friends who helped me through many shifts. I met some interesting characters. The night manager at one store was a grade school principal by day, would drink Bud Ice all night, and might occasionally have a diabetic seizure. Another guy named Tank, probably in his 50s, would gladly share a giant blunt of terrible weed for a ride home.

I ended up leaving after two years. It was an excellent decision given all I had going on at the time. I’ll spare you the particular details, but suffice it to say I had to figure a lot of things out.