During college I had a summer job at a large Chicago area department store. I worked in the hardware and paint departments and sometimes helped Mel over in lawn and garden. “I’m a sad clown, with my pants down.” That’s Mel. He would actually say that. Mel was just a fleshy, pathetic cigarette. A middle-aged, smoking machine, that Mel. Short-sleeved polyester shirts over a beer gut with a coffee-stained tie was his uniform. Mel hated his job and it hated him. The only time Mel seemed jubilant was when he would do a little dance and snap his fingers after being berated by a customer or a recent college graduate boss. “Burn, baby, burn,” he’d sing. He meant for the store to burn. And…