To start off, I work at a book store. A used book store. Half Price Books, which is a very good place to shop and a good place to work. Working full time at a bookstore appeals to me greatly, with one exception: while most customers are damn near angelic in their conduct, you always have a random freak and/or methhead who pisses in the pot.
Today's Exhibit A In Reasons Why The Apocalypse Isn't Coming Soon Enough;
This actually occured during Valentine's Day (to give the following events some added context).
While tending to the front of the store, I catch a whiff of something foul. By foul, I mean it smelled like a truck bearing a load of rotten eggs crashed into the store and had been lying underneath a pile of rubble for the last 3 days, its stench power increasing exponentially with each passing hour. Before I could track down the source of the smell, a high-pitched and quavering voice behind me murmured "C-C-C-Can you tell me where the bathroom is?" The owner of the voice looks like an anorexic Jerry Garcia. He's weairing checkered flannel and gray slacks... gray slacks with a massive rorscharch stain affixed to his ass. Yes, ladies and gentleman, the good man I just gave directions to the bathroom to had shit himself. And we're talking some serious volume in the waste department; that stain was almost as round as a soccer ball. I think he's going to make to the bathroom post haste... he doesn't. Instead, he goes back to scoping out the VHS. A couple of minutes, he comes back with a copy of Carrie. The questions begin:
"Have you seen Carrie?"
"What's she covered in?"
"Why did they cover her in blood?"
"Did this happen?'
"Did you see it?"
"Did you like it?"
"Should I buy it?"
By the way he talks (he sounds like he is trying to talk and say "AH!", the way you do when a doctor is trying to stick a popsicle stick down your throat, at the same time), I make him for a mentally handicapped chap (i.e. retard). Having a nephew with Downs Syndrome, I try very hard to be polite and patient with the ment-handis, but my patience is a finite and quickly vanishing resource. I probably could have endured another five minutes of Carrie questioning were it not for the fact that the men smelled LIKE A SEPTIC TANK.
Our questioning done, he runs off and talks to an elderly lady. Turns out to be his mom (mom is pushing 90). He asks her if he can buy Carrie. She says "no, Joey, you need to buy some new underwear". I keep thinking to myself, yes, yes, for the love of Christ, get some underwear, Joey, listen to the geezer. 'Tis not to be; Joey is adamant. "I WANT CARRIE! I WANT CARRIE!" He starts shrieking this out loud while hopping up and down at the same time, swinging is bony fists up and down across his knees. At one point, apparently tiring out from the tantrum-jumping jacks, he starts waving his arms like a chicken. Normally, I would wander over and tell him and his mother that they're being a disturbance and they need to keep these squabbles on the downlow, but I couldn't. I was MESMERISED by Joey and his shit-stained antics.
I head over to the cash register to ring them out. Mom has conceded defeat to Joey. All is well, I think. No, no, no. They turn to leave, her first foot is out the door, when he turns around and bolts back to the VHS section. He picks two more tapes: Philedelphia and a collection of I Love Lucy episodes. The farce begins again, lasting 40 minutes. He keeps insisting on buying them, she keeps asking me how much they are ("$4.30 a piece" I say, over and over again, roughly 21 times), and when I finally devise an exit strategy (seeing another customer walking towards the register to be checked out), I'm cockblocked by one of my coworkers, who assists ALL THE OTHER CUSTOMERS on the other register so I can have the Crazy Family's undivided attention. While he's ringing away, I have to say $4.30 over and over again and try to explain the plot of Philedelphia to Rain Man over and over again.
All in all, I lost an hour and fifteen minutes to Joey and his shit-stained pants. A nice enough guy, and I know, I know, he can't help himself. Normally, I'm very tolerant among the disabled. The thing is, I got a REALLY sensitive nose. All I could smell, all I could experience, in that encounter was the smell of rancid human feces.
And the hell of it is I've got plenty more where that came from. Unlike my last job (working as an usher for Harkins Theaters), the customers aren't rude; they're just completely batshit crazy. The way I see it, I'm an anthropologist of local quacks and wingnuts; somebody has to catalog these poor bastards.
Today's Exhibit A In Reasons Why The Apocalypse Isn't Coming Soon Enough;
This actually occured during Valentine's Day (to give the following events some added context).
While tending to the front of the store, I catch a whiff of something foul. By foul, I mean it smelled like a truck bearing a load of rotten eggs crashed into the store and had been lying underneath a pile of rubble for the last 3 days, its stench power increasing exponentially with each passing hour. Before I could track down the source of the smell, a high-pitched and quavering voice behind me murmured "C-C-C-Can you tell me where the bathroom is?" The owner of the voice looks like an anorexic Jerry Garcia. He's weairing checkered flannel and gray slacks... gray slacks with a massive rorscharch stain affixed to his ass. Yes, ladies and gentleman, the good man I just gave directions to the bathroom to had shit himself. And we're talking some serious volume in the waste department; that stain was almost as round as a soccer ball. I think he's going to make to the bathroom post haste... he doesn't. Instead, he goes back to scoping out the VHS. A couple of minutes, he comes back with a copy of Carrie. The questions begin:
"Have you seen Carrie?"
"What's she covered in?"
"Why did they cover her in blood?"
"Did this happen?'
"Did you see it?"
"Did you like it?"
"Should I buy it?"
By the way he talks (he sounds like he is trying to talk and say "AH!", the way you do when a doctor is trying to stick a popsicle stick down your throat, at the same time), I make him for a mentally handicapped chap (i.e. retard). Having a nephew with Downs Syndrome, I try very hard to be polite and patient with the ment-handis, but my patience is a finite and quickly vanishing resource. I probably could have endured another five minutes of Carrie questioning were it not for the fact that the men smelled LIKE A SEPTIC TANK.
Our questioning done, he runs off and talks to an elderly lady. Turns out to be his mom (mom is pushing 90). He asks her if he can buy Carrie. She says "no, Joey, you need to buy some new underwear". I keep thinking to myself, yes, yes, for the love of Christ, get some underwear, Joey, listen to the geezer. 'Tis not to be; Joey is adamant. "I WANT CARRIE! I WANT CARRIE!" He starts shrieking this out loud while hopping up and down at the same time, swinging is bony fists up and down across his knees. At one point, apparently tiring out from the tantrum-jumping jacks, he starts waving his arms like a chicken. Normally, I would wander over and tell him and his mother that they're being a disturbance and they need to keep these squabbles on the downlow, but I couldn't. I was MESMERISED by Joey and his shit-stained antics.
I head over to the cash register to ring them out. Mom has conceded defeat to Joey. All is well, I think. No, no, no. They turn to leave, her first foot is out the door, when he turns around and bolts back to the VHS section. He picks two more tapes: Philedelphia and a collection of I Love Lucy episodes. The farce begins again, lasting 40 minutes. He keeps insisting on buying them, she keeps asking me how much they are ("$4.30 a piece" I say, over and over again, roughly 21 times), and when I finally devise an exit strategy (seeing another customer walking towards the register to be checked out), I'm cockblocked by one of my coworkers, who assists ALL THE OTHER CUSTOMERS on the other register so I can have the Crazy Family's undivided attention. While he's ringing away, I have to say $4.30 over and over again and try to explain the plot of Philedelphia to Rain Man over and over again.
All in all, I lost an hour and fifteen minutes to Joey and his shit-stained pants. A nice enough guy, and I know, I know, he can't help himself. Normally, I'm very tolerant among the disabled. The thing is, I got a REALLY sensitive nose. All I could smell, all I could experience, in that encounter was the smell of rancid human feces.
And the hell of it is I've got plenty more where that came from. Unlike my last job (working as an usher for Harkins Theaters), the customers aren't rude; they're just completely batshit crazy. The way I see it, I'm an anthropologist of local quacks and wingnuts; somebody has to catalog these poor bastards.
And hey, we all have good and bad days at work right? Although I don't remember having days that bad at most of the jobs I've had.
Anyway, welcome to the site.
Was your choise of name inspired by the Sandman story?
And thanks for the welcome. Nice to see that someone appreciates my own little brand of storytelling. And that was actually one of my tamer moments.
P.S. Sorry about not responding sooner. I have sporadic (i.e. once a week) access to the internet, so it takes me a while to respond to things.