Norman was in his early thirties when I worked with him, and in retrospect a giant fuck-up. He was a lot of fun to work with, though. When we were bored, which of course was quite often, Norman would sporadically break into a verse or two of a self-invented ditty. His most commonly repeated riff was “Noooooooobody loooooooooves old Normannnnnnn,” though he’d sometimes substitute my name or that of another employee. I called him “Stormin’ Norman” because he was the kind of guy who needed a nickname.
I don’t know the full story of how he ended up working at a 7-11, but over time I learned a few tidbits about him that suggest a more thorough explanation. He’d lost his driver’s license to multiple DWI’s, for instance, and had to take the bus to work. I lived just across the street from the store, so generally I walked to work, but once I had a car with me for some reason and offered him a ride, which he declined.
From time to time he would recount a ribald tale from one of his recent exploits. Being a teenage boy, I was usually eager to hear more. I asked him if he’d ever been with two women at once. He sighed. “Yeah. Couple of times. It’s not all it’s cracked up to be, believe me. It’s very difficult to attend to two at once. A lot of pressure. I couldn’t keep up with them.”
Norm’s aspiration, which was common among those for whom 7-11 was part of a career path, was to get a job with one of the many companies that supplied ours and other convenience stores. He always chatted with the vendors who delivered to our store and frequently asked about opportunities. Norm left without any fanfare, which I’ve always hoped was because he got his dream job wheeling crates of soda or ice cream bars in and out of big white trucks and glass storefronts on a dolly.