They called me "Tiny" even though I was 6'2" and weighed 350 pounds. Even back then, most of my hair was gone, and whatever was left, I shaved. I let my prematurely gray beard grow down to my navel. People would tell me I looked like a cross between Steve Austin, Orson Welles, and ZZ Top. I never knew if they meant it as an insult or a compliment, so I let it go. After all, I liked ZZ Top, but I wasn't sure who that Welles guy was, but I figured he must be okay if he looked like me. I had several tattoos, but I never got any above the collar. Besides, my neck was too stout and broad to display any kind of artwork.

In those days, I worked at a Sears warehouse next to the railroad tracks on the other side of town. Some said it was on the wrong side of the tracks, but I guess it depended on your viewpoint. Part of the warehouse was a storage and sales area for slightly damaged household appliances. Once in a while, a stove or a refrigerator might get damaged in transit. It was still good enough to sell but at a discount. If the scratch or dent was on the side or back where it wasn't likely to be seen, a savvy customer could get a good deal. I had the distinction of being the floor manager of the department.

The company paid most of the workers in my department a minimum wage. As a result, they did not hire the best and brightest people. All of them were guys between the ages of 18 and 30. Most all of them were either ex-cons or gang bangers with criminal records, and usually both. I tried to instill a sense of work ethic in the guys by telling them that they weren't only working for a paycheck but a ticket back into society. It was important not only that they didn't screw up, but that they didn't do anything illegal, like stealing, selling drugs, doing drugs, or fighting.

Although I was a big guy, most of my department didn't show much respect for me. I often caught them smoking where they weren't allowed. A few times, I found them smoking pot. They pretty much ignored me whenever I told them to straighten up.

One day I noticed a couple of the guys walking around with one pant leg pulled up. I wasn't entirely sure what it meant, but I was smart enough to know it was a gang symbol, probably involving the sale of drugs. I walked up to one of the guys and asked him to put his pant leg down. He blatantly told me to go f___ myself. In a knee-jerk reaction, I slammed his head against one of the white refrigerators, leaving a big dent in the freezer door with a trickle of blood running through it. Funny, but everyone got along after that.

Story and Cover Illustration Copyright © 2021 by Michael DeFrancesco