Fifteen years ago, I worked in the consumer electronics section of a major department store. My girlfriend at the time was an Irish lass named Sorca, who worked in the housewares section. Our manager was a demanding and appallingly artificial woman named Dale, who went around calling everyone “poopsie.”

I realize that this anecdote contains elements you will find difficult to believe: first, that I had a girlfriend at all, and second, that I allowed myself to be called “poopsie” on a regular basis. As for the latter, at least I had a modicum of revenge.

Sorca (who was as brilliantly evil as I was) and I came up with a code name for Dale: likening her to Freddy Krueger, a creature she rather resembled in appearance and temperament, we dubbed her “Fredina.”

Over the time we worked together, Fredina’s legend grew. We imagined her lurking amongst the merchandise after hours, or popping out of the stock rooms to the dismay of any poor cashiers working alone. First she would make them work a strenuous unpaid overtime, then she would disembowel them. The last word these unfortunate souls would hear would of course be poopsie.

We even wrote and illustrated a novella called “The Night of Fredina,” which documented this mythology.

This all happened when I was between sixteen and seventeen years old, which may help explain some of the details further, but it has disturbing implications. Half a lifetime ago, I was able to hold down a job, go to school full time, maintain a relationship and some sort of family life, and still find time to do a great deal of writing on the side. If I recall correctly, I even had a very active social life.

What happened?