bonnie bernstein's Open Salon Blog

I Sold Bullets For Walmart

Sat, 22 Dec 2012 19:12:58 -0500

I sold ammo for Walmart, all along thinking “Bonnie, it’s just a paycheck.” I’m such a pathetic liar. But I needed that piece of paper to survive past due to paster due. As a forty something divorced mother with a college education and a thin resume of working in schools and on political campaigns, there wasn’t much out there in the way of employment for a baby boomer current American history expert. So I took a job at an upstate New York Wally’s World mega store location for just about minimum wage, and a camera watching my every movement. I kept telling myself, “Bonnie, you always did like working with the public, even when you hated people.” While I was earning that paycheck for last month’s bills, I sometimes told myself the truth.

One Saturday afternoon, the first time I saw them I stared, stared down at a box of bullets while ringing up sales at a register. There they were, across from a computer display, screaming, “Here we are.” They were in a rectangular white box. You could’ve put a bow on them. And yes, it did say bullets on it. I stopped, and gawked for what seemed far too many moments. Although it was probably only a few seconds. I picked up the box, and shook it to hear something. So nervous, I dropped it on the counter. I was flipping out internally thinking “they’ll explode like fireworks in Beirut.” This was the first time for me. I was a weapons virgin. I learned that day bullets are really, really shaped like little penis’ when I peaked inside, underneath, looking for a target.

When I took the job at Walmart, I knew they sold weapons and hunting equipment. I just never thought I would be handling anything from the sporting goods department that was next to the legos and baby dolls that was next to electronics, where I was. In the back of the store, where all the toys were. I thought I’d be with the video games, movies and televisions. All would be safe with a “Call of Duty.” And I accepted that from time to time I’d be pulled to work in the front of the store on the registers where there would be a bevy of happy, cheery customers waiting to get the heck out of there. But I never thought…

When Walmart called me in for an interview that I would jump at the opportunity to daily don beige pants and a blue shirt with a lacey cami underneath it. That I would parade around as some sort of expert knowing what plug would be good for what wire. Or that it wouldn’t matter. Cause when I got out there I just spoke with an air of authority, “Oh this thingy here has that thingy go in it.” Many of the male customers came back to see me. All my years of reading Magna something and Constitutional whatever came in handy with the boys who wanted to buy whatever it was they were spending money on.

And one afternoon I found my chewed up fingernails running through a box of could it possibly be death? I tried to make light of it, “It’s just bullets, it can’t do anything without a gun, without someone to pull a trigger.” That I could handle something that makes real trouble. Do real damage, if in the wrong hands. Through the fingers of someone either not knowledgable about how to use these bullets or why to use these bullets. And I confess I was excited by the danger. At no point was I instructed on what to do when faced with a box of bullets.

That one crazed afternoon, while I was ringing up overflowing shopping carts filled with food, screwdrivers, pillows and too many cd’s to count, the sporting goods manager came to see me. I’d never seen him before. He just said he was the manager. He, also, said, “My department’s register is broken. I need you to ring this sale up for me.” After I looked at him and the customer, I looked down to see that small white box of bullets. I was like “huh.” But I learned through the years to hide my emotions, show poker face, and it was busy. The manager said, “I’ll show you how to do the sale.” After I bagged enough beer and milk for seemed an eternity, I scanned the box of bullets. The register asked for ID. The manager said, “Don’t worry about that. Just tap this and touch that, and you’ll bypass the need for ID.” And I did. My weapons hymen was broken that day.

The scene repeated itself again minutes later. The sporting goods manager, the customer, the bullets, no need to do anything about ID, how to bypass the whole thing through the register. I was so busy ringing up sales, unlocking glass cabinets to show customers video games and watching that no one stole televisions or laptops that the bullets seemed as part of my day. While driving home, it suddenly dawned on me, “What did I just do today?” I might’ve sold bullets, something that kills to a mass murderer. I never went through any training on procedures concerning what to do, and the manager showed me how to get around what was it, Walmart or federal regulations?

That night at the bar, while nursing a Heineken, everyone around me either told me not to worry or that you’ll find out by tomorrow if some people are dead. They were laughing. I wanted to puke up the dinner I couldn’t eat. I went home to sit nervously by the radio hoping that there would be no trouble. When a friend tried to drag me away from the AM stations, I would reach for a newspaper praying no one splayed bullets all over the place. I was worried that these weapons would somehow be traced back to Walmart and me. I was scared that I would be responsible for someone’s death because I sold bullets for Walmart while bypassing a register’s requirements.

I am a liberal Democrat. I am voting for Mitt Romney.

Wed, 10 Oct 2012 21:10:20 -0400

I am a liberal Democrat. ProChoice. ProMarriageEquality. Against the death penalty, nuclear power plants and fracking. I am voting for Mitt Romney. There. I just admitted what I’ve been grappling with for over four years. How a New York City Jewish mother born at the tail end of a baby boom can turn a coat, and vote for the Grand Old Party, the Republican Party. And it’s not because of how President Obama’s constant visits to the Big Apple kills my love life, either. http://bit.ly/NreQpM So I guess that makes me, to some, a mixed up, confused, ditzy, dizzy political heretic. That’s ok. I’m used to heresy. In 2001, I left my beloved Mets for the Phillies when Turk Wendell was sent to Philadelphia in a trade crafted by Steve Phillips.

Born during the Kennedy presidency of “ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country,” I grew up, around the corner from Archie Bunker, in a family that revered Richard Nixon. But, even as a kid, I was enthralled, fascinated by Robert Kennedy, Bella Abzug, Abbie Hoffman, and I wanted to grow up to be like Woodward and Bernstein, breaking stories about what some bad politicos did to hurt the good people. I wanted to give something back to a land that gave my family a chance when they came over from Europe in the late 1800‘s/early 1900‘s. Living in New York, I felt the Democratic Party was the place for me. If I didn’t break Watergate stories, I would run for public office.

“You’re voting for Obama, right.”

“Ah, no.”

“Come on, Romney doesn’t care about you.”

By the way, if anyone has unfriended me on Facebook, yet, I understand. Wait, forget about that. I don’t think I understand. Cause I would stand by my friends if they were Tea Party member, Occupy Wall Street peeps, President Obama supporters, or even Skankee lovers. Wait, I have. Cause this country is based on a system of checks and balances. This is a country formed to protect the minority. And I am a part of new minority, or am I? A liberal Democrat for Mitt Romney. I, also, support the legalization of marijuana.

I have several friends, yes some still talk to me and will continue to do so after this, that voted for President Obama with me four years ago. Now they are, quietly, going to pull the lever for Mitt Romney. They don’t want their neighbors, their family members to know.

“Shhh, don’t tell anyone.”

That’s what’s going on here in New York, where it’s a given that the Democratic Party will prevail and deliver the vote for President Obama. Assume nothing. There are some people who are tired of the economy not just standing still, but slowing shattering. And four years ago, yes, I’ll admit I almost turned Republican to vote for John McCain, until he chose Sarah Palin as his running mate. See the vice presidential candidate does matter.

“I’m voting for Mitt Romney.”

“You can’t do that. He lies. Please say you’re not gonna do that.”

So why do I no longer buy into the idea of “hope and change we can believe in.” Because after four years of this, I ask myself, “Are you better off today than you were four years ago?” (Five points to anyone who knows who said this back in 1980.) And my answer is, “No.” If anyone out there in reader land can say a yes to this question, I am happy for you. But shame on me, I voted for a man who I knew would be compared to Jimmy “I’ll never lie to you” Carter, and so President “If it’s not fixed in 3 years I’m done” Obama is just that person. The Middle Eastern/Iran troubles, back then that happened on the weekend of my eighteenth birthday. The price of a gallon of gasoline, the tens and twenties going for food. And, today, nothing left over but an empty chair.

“Just register to vote. You may change your mind at the last minute and want to vote.”

“What’s the use? Why bother?”

I know kids who voted for the first time four years ago, pulling that lever for Barack Obama. They were excited to hear him speak at places like Washington Square Park and Cooper Union. Standing in front of a lower Manhattan Starbucks for hours, I was awed when I saw our future President. This time around many will not be voting at all. Those twenty somethings. Some, who may or may not have jobs, will be too busy trying to figure out how to get a meal. No money for a five dollar box of cereal. They don’t have the dollars for food, and, repeatedly, get turned down for food stamps. The food pantry lines have gotten longer across the country, and in New York City the streets are not always paved with gold but sometimes with the hungry.

So, I decided to vote for Mitt Romney before:

* President Obama’s bumbling debate showing him to be a non-leader.

“Boy Obama got killed last night.”

“It was awful what Romney did.”

“What’s PBS anyway?”

* the murderous 9/11 in Benghazi, and our President’s ridiculous apology to the United Nations. I’ve heard The View is a lovely television show, never seen it – can’t afford the luxury. But it would’ve been nice to meet with a few Middle Eastern leaders. And it would’ve been the right thing not to make one of them wait for you while you ate dinner.

* the presidential mix up, and his convention’s confusion, to what city is the capital of Israel. If the White House hasn’t figured out geography yet…

* the price of gasoline went back up to the summer of 2008’s prices, well over $4.00 a gallon.

I decided to vote for Mitt Romney when I realized while jobless and relying on family members to help me financially as I slept on the cold floor http://bit.ly/GBFriR That Obamacare http://bit.ly/wUAbyK was just another program shuffling papers. Because I don’t have a lease and I get mail at a post office box, I can’t get Medicaid or food stamps http://bit.ly/MS3kcD. In order to get these programs, one must prove where one lives. A street address. Funny, the motor vehicle department believes you when you say your address. And in order to register to vote, just fill in the application and voila! The ability to cast that choice.

So back to medical care, I am uninsured. Does that mean when Obamacare takes effect, I will have to pay for insurance or be fined? If so, I hope I have a job by then. Yes. I used to work. I was a Hebrew School teacher, a tour guide at a military installation, a public relations assistant (whatever that is) and a political campaign worker (for the Democratic party). Then I took a job at Walmart, and as I was about to leave for a better paying job a television fell on me http://bit.ly/MILAk5.

When Mitt Romney is elected will I be concerned about the liberal causes I hold dear to my aching without medical care heart? Yes. But I’m believing that the world will be a safer place to live in, and that I will be able to earn enough of a living so I won’t have to worry about the ability to get the welfare programs that I need now and can’t get. What good is a nuclear power plant free world if I sleep in a heatless apartment? Am I worried about some birth control pills? I’d rather be concerned about what time Sleepy’s will be delivering my bed (by the way, when a friend heard that I slept on the floor she gave me a couch -- a truly good person who still talks to me, although we are voting differently). So this mother, me, will be pulling that lever for a man who I don’t agree with on many issues, but I do on some, a safer world with a better economy. Mitt Romney is my man.

Eating Ice Cream On 9/11

Mon, 10 Sep 2012 22:09:53 -0400

The World Trade Center was burning and I was eating ice cream, the chocolate kind with a cherry on top. I couldn’t watch CNN report an airplane splitting a building in half and people jumping out windows from towering infernos to their deaths, so I took the dog out for a flying saucer. Milo, my then five year old wheaten terrier, and I got into the 2000 grey four door Hyundai that sat in the driveway with just a drop of gas in it and drove down the block to a Carvel in Plainview on Long Island. We passed the supermarket, they were selling late season peaches like it was a fire sale.

I was an almost forty year old housewife going through a milf life crisis. Having just lost 20 pounds, I took part in the high maintenance mani pedi world, and got that grey hair dyed. My jeans came from the teen shop next to TCBY. Trying to get pre Bar and Bat Mitzvah children to appreciate who they were, for Payless shoe money I taught history to girls I shopped next to for the trendy shirts. As that warm September 11 morning unfolded, I never thought about Pearl Harbor, the 1993 attack on the Twin Towers slipped my mind and Oklahoma was not even a registered thought.

With music streaming out of the cassette player, Milo and I drove into the little strip mall. I stopped at the bank for a twenty out of the ATM. As we walked through the parking lot to get something to take the edge off of whatever we were suffering, I didn’t understand that I should have frayed nerves and no appetite. Sitting outside on the pavement, Milo finished his cup of vanilla soft serve and I devoured my low fat parfait with extra whipped cream. An elderly couple stopped and the woman said to the man, “Oh look at the dog, he’s so lucky not to know what’s going on.” I went back for more ice cream. Back in the car, listening to Dixie Chicks, I had no idea, either, what the heck was happening.

Growing up in Glendale, Queens, stories of World War 2 were, for me, folktales. The immigrants retelling of European starvation were like Hansel and Gretel stories to this then 35 pound brown haired pixie six year old. Visitors from Hawaii who revered my Army veteran stepfather for taking care of them as they fed him at luaus brought puka beads for me to wear. Later, my two year old son threw the necklace down the toilet. On 911, we sat in the Yeshiva office registering for the first day of ninth grade. The principal got a phone call saying a plane went into the World Trade Center. We felt panicky, but thought it was just an accident, a little plane. My son’s father and I left our child, the day after his 14^th birthday, to start his first day of high school. A thirty minute drive from home, and the kid didn’t have a cell phone.

Later that day, I was almost arrested. I was picking up my child from school. There was no bus service. It took me three hours to get to him. The roads were blocked. Only emergency vehicles were allowed through. With firemen and EMT's racing through, the police told me that I wasn't allowed to drive any further, and that I should go home. I would not turn back and leave my son. One officer gave me directions via some back roads. When I got near the school, the area was cut off to all traffic. There was a hospital nearby. The injured were supposed to be brought there. No one ever made it. I was allowed through.

That night, I tried to buy my son school supplies. All the stores were closed.

Still eating chocolate ice cream on 9/11 and everyday. But know better, so much better... now... there are no more cherries and whipped cream. It ain't the same anymore.

President Obama and My Fantasy Love Life

Tue, 31 Jul 2012 19:07:48 -0400

http://www.yourtango.com/2012157925/president-obama-and-my-fantasy-sex-life

Which man, with salt and pepper hair, is the one for this writer?

Whenever President Obama comes to New York City, mylove life becomes more of what it usually is, a fantasy. I guess it's really not a part of his agenda, jobs, peace, the price of gas, getting reelected and if I, a divorced, rebellious baby born at the end of a major boom, am getting laid tonight? Not even if, to boot, I'm a registered Democrat?

I just replied maybe's to two evenings out instead of definite yes's. It's because of our president's constant visits to the Big Apple. Since we coincided our respective moves, me to the woods north of the city, and his into the White House, Obama has visited New York more times than I've had fat free chocolate ice cream with whipped cream while watching old sitcoms. I'm glad the man loves my hometown, but he is seriously cramping my style and my baby making desires.

I want to take my bomb of a car that can't pass inspection into the city with the school girl crush hopes of seeing a hot guy with scorchingly awesome premature salt and pepper hair. We travelin the same circle. Me not being able to afford auto repairs. Him not knowing I exist. But it seems every time I make plans to drive into Manhattan, I need to check to see if President Obama is thinking of doing the same. Him, and his chauffeur, at some fundraiser. Me, hoping to play the shy, geeky girl drooling in the corner over the popular guy who may or may not show.

In the past, if the president wanted to go to Soho or to Broadway or wherever else in Manhattan, it was traffic hell for me. A sixty minute drive turned into a three hour commute where I would play act being one of the city's rats in a maze around some pretty buildings.

I'd, desperately, want to give up with thinking of streets being blocked from uptown to downtown, and onto the outskirts of Manhattan into the other boroughs. I'd want to not get upset at the thought that my hair would be a mess by the time I'd see Mr. Salt and Pepper, the guy who doesn't even know I, a junior high moustached misfit, have yet to get a life. Although I do now know a good wax lady.

So I began to play a game of sorts out of sheer boredom. Listening to conservative talk radio, specifically that other gorgeous man Sean Hannity, while driving and, luckily, not getting into an accident when I'd hear his voice, I'd seek out from my car window men in dark suits roaming my town's streets. I'd hope they were Secret Service guys in uniform, and not just Wall Street types. I fell madly in love with those Brooks Brothers men, some who did have salt and pepper hair with something bulging from their pants pockets. Please don't tell the original urban Mr. Salt and Pepper man that I've been cheating on him.

I'd imagine them guarding my body, holding me down as I'd try in vein to get around the FDR. I'd occasionally get pulled off with everyone else to go cross town through Harlem with a circular stopover by Central Park. And it would be there that I'd hope one of the president's men would pull me over to very closely question my intentions. If not that, then maybe, during rush hour there could be a slow sensuous slide over to the Westside Highway to an imposed crawl onto 34th Street. Then I would surrender to those boys. I would trade seeing Mr. Salt and Pepper for the Secret Service men in uniform.

So question is, which man is worth the traffic: Mr. Salt and Pepper, President Obama, the Secret Services boys or should I travel north to another man with Salt and Pepper hair? Please let me know, and stay tuned...

Remembering The 1972 Olympics

Fri, 27 Jul 2012 11:07:07 -0400

The 2012 Summer Olympics are beginning in London, England. The Olympic Committee won’t remember the 11 Israeli athletes who were murdered in Munich forty years ago. But I will, and I hope you will, too.

As a quiet, little New York City Jewish girl visiting my father in Miami glued to a far off world on the television, I wanted to be just like Soviet gymnast Olga Korbut, all smiles, gliding across a balance beam. Olga Korbut vaulted to Olympic fame in Munich, Germany in 1972. And I jumped to childhood glory somewhere near Dadeland, in Florida. She paused with her hands and arms just gracefully so. And I did that, too, with my limbs in all sorts of directions, like a traffic signal gone wild. When Olga finished her floor exercises she grinned a grin better than I could ever have while eating a box of yodels. And then to be like my little girl hero, I ran through the grass and stood still when the music stopped.

I was getting ready to watch Olga back flip the uneven parallel bars. I was planning my Cinderella fairy tale wedding to Mark Spitz, an American Jew who won seven gold medals and wore a hot moustache. And then I turned on the television, and saw masked men with guns on someone’s terrace. The man reporting the news told me this was coming from Germany, from the Olympic Village. These men, may they be further away then they came from that year, had taken over the Israeli team’s rooms. This was happening to them because they were Jewish, the first time I, born decades after the Holocaust, had ever seen such a thing happen to a group of people because they were Jewish. Sitting alone in a bedroom, I was scared.

Thirty years after the Holocaust, I lived in a little part of New York City that was settled by Germans and Jews. We lived and mixed just fine. My mother shopped at the local deli, Lutzen’s, for the best roast beef and German potato salad. But when my family spent summers on the Connecticut side of the Long Island Sound, my mother with blue eyes and blonde hair always warned me to never tell people who I was, wwho I am. A Jew. My mother had grown up during the Holocaust, here in the USA. She was an opera singer who was told in order to succeed she would need to get a nose job to “fix things.“ And my mother was always worried what people would say about who we were.

I couldn’t understand my mothers concerns. Then Munich happened. And that was my first experience, as a little girl growing up real fast, that things were indeed different. I was worried that the men who killed these innocent participants in the Olympics for being Jewish, Israeli Jews, would come for me, alone in an American bedroom. I was reminded through a massacre in Germany, those 40 years ago this summer during the Olympics, of who I am. A Jewish girl who likes to eat chocolate, still can’t do a cartwheel, who will always flip over a poster of hot American Jewish man who wore only his swimmies, a hot moustache and seven gold medals.