G'evening once again, fellow nocturnal web-slingers and surfers/surfettes.
Work today was interesting. By interesting, I don't mean in any kind of remotely intellectually stimulating way. Nor in any interestingly titillating fashion (although we did have a very pretty lass who came into the store asking for a copy of James Michener's Hawaii; I didn't have the heart to tell her that the reason we don't have it on the shelf is I throw out on average 6 copies of Hawaii a week). Side note: there are certain authors, like Michener, comedy authors like Tim Allen/Bill Cosby/Paul "Meh x 6,000" Reiser, and any Star Trek novel ever written, that never sell ever. Let me put it this way: cancer would sell better than the aforementioned shit authors I just name-checked. Tumors would fly off the shelf if people were forced to pick between a terminal illnes and Tim Allen's "Don't Stand Too Close To A Naked Man". Setting that aside, back to what made today interesting.
It was around 1:30 in the afternoon. I was on the buy counter, and it was starting to get slow. I was deeply thankful for that lull in transactions. For the last two hours, people hauled in almost inconceivable piles of crap. I'm talking about Guinness Book Of World Records dating back to 1982, copies of Anne Rice's "Taltos" (which we have a million of), John Grisham paperbacks with pages coming unbound, BURNT CDs that people try to pass off as legit, and I had to put up with four tweaker buys. Gods above and below, I despise tweakers. They always hover close by, scratching their pock-marked faces, as you inspect their materials (which they have acquired either by 1. jacking it from a family member's home, 2. jacking it from a dumpster, or 3. jacking it from the discounted book section that the Borders across the street has conveniently positioned outside on the street). Another brief digression: part of the reason why I have come to loathe tweakers even more than usual is I had a brief verbal altercation with one several days ago. Guy came in, as bony and pale as an Auschwitz survivor, same itchy pockmarked face as every other full-bore tweaker that comes in, and he's trying to pawn stuff off on us that obviously is not his. The selections: old Harlequin novels, shit fantasy hardcovers, business books that could of have been relevant in 1986, a whole bunch of thrillers that were obviously ripped off from Borders' last chance section, and one anomaly: a book on Toulouse Lautrec and the Parisian art and anarchistic culture. We have an unofficial benefit of the doubt policy where I work: even if someone looks real shady the first time they come in, we usually still make an offer for their stuff and hope that they give us the rope to hang them with on subsequent visits. So I lowball the guy with my offer, hoping he'll reject it and take his stolen shit and get out, but of course he accepts it. As I'm printing it out his voucher, I try to strike up a conversation about the Lautrec book. "What did ya think of it?" The question makes him recoil violently, as though he were a mongoose that had just crossed paths with a cobra. "I don't know, I didn't read it.... its not mine". By the time the words "its not mine" comes rolling out of his chapped lips in a defensive mumble, he's already signed his voucher and turns to head to the register and get his ill-gotten gains of a buck fifty (yes, a buck fifty; I told you I lowballed the thieving son of a bitch). I interrupt his hasty escape by asking "does it belong to your family?". He hesitates before answering (it takes him a minute to mutter out a confused-sounding yes). A very unconvincing yes, mind you. As he heads to the register, I walk up behind him and ask him who the books belong to. At this he gets indignant, saying "who cares? its a used bookstore, do you ask everybody where they got their books from?" Corporate policy forbids me from saying what I was thinking ("no, just the suspicous ones"). I tell him that he can take his money and that he isn't welcome in the store anymore. In response, I get called a "piece of shit", a "fat fuck", an "uptight asshole", and he gives me the double bird on the way out. I don't mind being called a piece of shit or a fat fuck (I'll be the first to admit I have a bit of a paunch; luckily, being a fat fuck is a more easily correctable condition than being a tweaker loser), but uptight? That was uncalled for. So as you can see, faithful readers, I don't take too kindly to meth-heads. But I'm going WAYYYYY off-topic, so back to the subject at hand...
.... I was chilling like the proverbial villian at the counter when two women approach the counter. One was pretty cute and was rocking this Susanna Hoff "Walk Like An Egyptian" look; the other was obviously an elder relative, a short and portly lady, the kind of woman whom I like to say has a mini-bar physique. They point out a customer in the store: a tall guy with big orange headphones in a green polo shirt. Poor guy is obviously mentally disabled; his face has the unnatural contours and vague rat-like features of someone who got fucked hard in the genetic lottery. In his arms is a massive stack of CDs (at least 50). He's out of earshot as they tell me that they are his guardians, and that in any minute now he's going to go to the counter and ask to buy all fifty discs, then ask to put half of them on hold, and then he won't buy any because he doesn't have any money. Susanna Hoff explains this to me, and I nod along, trying not to look like a complete tool. In spite of being an adult in most respects, I still retain some of the more annoying traits of my childhood, chief among them a severe shyness around total strangers. Especially if said strangers happen to be good-looking members of the opposite sex; then I have to work overtime not to start stuttering and not avoid eye contact. Whenever I ask for a clarification, because this whole conversation is confusing the hell out of me (what the hell do they want us to do? This isn't our problem.), the elder lady leans forward and shushs me, index finger over her lips. There are a few things in life that instantly make me hostile towards someone. For example: if you're a stranger and you call me buddy/pal/young man/guy/etc, I'll want to floss my teeth with your intestines. Shushing me librarian style is also a fast ticket to making me go Mr. Hyde real quick. I give them my biggest shit-eating grin (and when I pour on that grin, it can get big enough to scare away sharks) and tell them that I hear what they're saying and I'll do what I can with their problem man-child.
O.G. (I can't remember the poor bastards' name, so Orange Green will have to do) comes up to the counter and I help the register person out. We spend fifteen minutes scanning CDs, pulling CDs out of our filing cabinets, all the while nodding along to his inane conversation. Susanna and The Mini-Fridge lurk in the background with apologetic looks on their faces; they know what's coming. Sure enough, O.G. balks at the total of his purchase, a whopping 78 bucks. He pulls out his wallet and counts out his money on the counter, bill by bill. Halfway through, he loses count and starts over. I'm trying not to bite my knuckles in frustration as he comes to the dawning realization that he can't pay for all this crap and begins the long and torturous process of thinning out the herd. He narrows it down to 3 discs; when I give him the new total, he says its too much and narrows it down to one disc, which he spends the next 3 minutes agonizing over. I must emphasize that things were REALLY SLOW at the moment, so no customers were standing behind him and giving me a compelling reason to tell him to make up his mind and get moving. The whole time his guardians keep miming "sorry, really sorry", to which I mentally shot back ('fuck off. You knew this was going to happen. Why not tell him he can't buy these records in the first place, so you can spare us this colossal waste of time?"). Eventually, he comes to the reluctant decision that he won't buy anything and steps away from the reg, leaving 50 CDs behind for us to file away and put back in order.
I figure that's the end of it. Fifteen minutes later, Susanna And The Mini-Fridge return. Apparently, O.G. has locked himself in the Men's Room and is refusing to come out. I've dealt with a lot of weird situations in customer service, but someone barricading themselves inside a bathroom is a new one. They tell me to just go frighten him. "Bang on the door, and if he doesn't come out, tell him you'll call the police". Their attitude just screams "hey, this happens all the time, never a dull moment with this fellow". My attitude screams "I hope a rogue satellite hurtles down through our atmosphere and turns your car into superheated shrapnel". I stomp over to the Men's Room and I'm instantly assailed with the stench of the damned. O.G. may be barricading himself in the bathroom, but at least he possesses enough good sense to use it for what its intended for. I start banging hard on the door, trying not to shout, even though my face is full of hot blood and my teeth are grinding away like a chainsaw pressed against an oak tree. I say "sir, you need to leave". A minute passes with no response. The smell is still present, and I repress the dual urge to howl in impotent rage and gag at the same time. In the background, Susanna And The Mini-Fridge continue their Oh-So Sorry Dance. Banging again, I repeat my message, letting a little anger creep in. Two minutes later he says OK, flushes the toilet, and BOOM! He's out the door. Dirty bird didn't even wash his hands. Susanna mouths a "thank you" at me as they walk away. I bite back the urge to shout "A PLAGUE ON YOUR HOUSE, BANGLES WITCH!" and just nod and watch as they head out the door.
Now, I have a nephew with Downs Syndrome, so whenever I'm around the mentally handicapped, I feel two disparate emotions. One is sadness for their condition. The other, I hate to admit, is revulsion. The thought that my beautiful two year old nephew will grow up to be one of THOSE people... its hard to accept. Maybe that was part of the reason the above incident crept under my skin so much, even if Susanna and Fraulein Mini-Fridge weren't so freaking annoying.
On the bright side: no other problem customers that day. No Joey Poop-Pants, no Cassette Guy pervert, no Paul With The Requests. Best of all: no screeching children.
Work aside: the last two days were good ones. I watched Enron: The Smartest Guys In The Room, yesterday, and it was quite a good documentary (the first hour is slow going, but the second hour picks up serious steam; the recorded conversations of Enron traders gloating over the California energy crisis as it happens made me want to take out my TV Elvis-style). Aside from that, patient readers, I have nothing else to add and nothing else to say, other than good night and good luck to all of you tomorrow (be it work, personal stuff, etc).
Work today was interesting. By interesting, I don't mean in any kind of remotely intellectually stimulating way. Nor in any interestingly titillating fashion (although we did have a very pretty lass who came into the store asking for a copy of James Michener's Hawaii; I didn't have the heart to tell her that the reason we don't have it on the shelf is I throw out on average 6 copies of Hawaii a week). Side note: there are certain authors, like Michener, comedy authors like Tim Allen/Bill Cosby/Paul "Meh x 6,000" Reiser, and any Star Trek novel ever written, that never sell ever. Let me put it this way: cancer would sell better than the aforementioned shit authors I just name-checked. Tumors would fly off the shelf if people were forced to pick between a terminal illnes and Tim Allen's "Don't Stand Too Close To A Naked Man". Setting that aside, back to what made today interesting.
It was around 1:30 in the afternoon. I was on the buy counter, and it was starting to get slow. I was deeply thankful for that lull in transactions. For the last two hours, people hauled in almost inconceivable piles of crap. I'm talking about Guinness Book Of World Records dating back to 1982, copies of Anne Rice's "Taltos" (which we have a million of), John Grisham paperbacks with pages coming unbound, BURNT CDs that people try to pass off as legit, and I had to put up with four tweaker buys. Gods above and below, I despise tweakers. They always hover close by, scratching their pock-marked faces, as you inspect their materials (which they have acquired either by 1. jacking it from a family member's home, 2. jacking it from a dumpster, or 3. jacking it from the discounted book section that the Borders across the street has conveniently positioned outside on the street). Another brief digression: part of the reason why I have come to loathe tweakers even more than usual is I had a brief verbal altercation with one several days ago. Guy came in, as bony and pale as an Auschwitz survivor, same itchy pockmarked face as every other full-bore tweaker that comes in, and he's trying to pawn stuff off on us that obviously is not his. The selections: old Harlequin novels, shit fantasy hardcovers, business books that could of have been relevant in 1986, a whole bunch of thrillers that were obviously ripped off from Borders' last chance section, and one anomaly: a book on Toulouse Lautrec and the Parisian art and anarchistic culture. We have an unofficial benefit of the doubt policy where I work: even if someone looks real shady the first time they come in, we usually still make an offer for their stuff and hope that they give us the rope to hang them with on subsequent visits. So I lowball the guy with my offer, hoping he'll reject it and take his stolen shit and get out, but of course he accepts it. As I'm printing it out his voucher, I try to strike up a conversation about the Lautrec book. "What did ya think of it?" The question makes him recoil violently, as though he were a mongoose that had just crossed paths with a cobra. "I don't know, I didn't read it.... its not mine". By the time the words "its not mine" comes rolling out of his chapped lips in a defensive mumble, he's already signed his voucher and turns to head to the register and get his ill-gotten gains of a buck fifty (yes, a buck fifty; I told you I lowballed the thieving son of a bitch). I interrupt his hasty escape by asking "does it belong to your family?". He hesitates before answering (it takes him a minute to mutter out a confused-sounding yes). A very unconvincing yes, mind you. As he heads to the register, I walk up behind him and ask him who the books belong to. At this he gets indignant, saying "who cares? its a used bookstore, do you ask everybody where they got their books from?" Corporate policy forbids me from saying what I was thinking ("no, just the suspicous ones"). I tell him that he can take his money and that he isn't welcome in the store anymore. In response, I get called a "piece of shit", a "fat fuck", an "uptight asshole", and he gives me the double bird on the way out. I don't mind being called a piece of shit or a fat fuck (I'll be the first to admit I have a bit of a paunch; luckily, being a fat fuck is a more easily correctable condition than being a tweaker loser), but uptight? That was uncalled for. So as you can see, faithful readers, I don't take too kindly to meth-heads. But I'm going WAYYYYY off-topic, so back to the subject at hand...
.... I was chilling like the proverbial villian at the counter when two women approach the counter. One was pretty cute and was rocking this Susanna Hoff "Walk Like An Egyptian" look; the other was obviously an elder relative, a short and portly lady, the kind of woman whom I like to say has a mini-bar physique. They point out a customer in the store: a tall guy with big orange headphones in a green polo shirt. Poor guy is obviously mentally disabled; his face has the unnatural contours and vague rat-like features of someone who got fucked hard in the genetic lottery. In his arms is a massive stack of CDs (at least 50). He's out of earshot as they tell me that they are his guardians, and that in any minute now he's going to go to the counter and ask to buy all fifty discs, then ask to put half of them on hold, and then he won't buy any because he doesn't have any money. Susanna Hoff explains this to me, and I nod along, trying not to look like a complete tool. In spite of being an adult in most respects, I still retain some of the more annoying traits of my childhood, chief among them a severe shyness around total strangers. Especially if said strangers happen to be good-looking members of the opposite sex; then I have to work overtime not to start stuttering and not avoid eye contact. Whenever I ask for a clarification, because this whole conversation is confusing the hell out of me (what the hell do they want us to do? This isn't our problem.), the elder lady leans forward and shushs me, index finger over her lips. There are a few things in life that instantly make me hostile towards someone. For example: if you're a stranger and you call me buddy/pal/young man/guy/etc, I'll want to floss my teeth with your intestines. Shushing me librarian style is also a fast ticket to making me go Mr. Hyde real quick. I give them my biggest shit-eating grin (and when I pour on that grin, it can get big enough to scare away sharks) and tell them that I hear what they're saying and I'll do what I can with their problem man-child.
O.G. (I can't remember the poor bastards' name, so Orange Green will have to do) comes up to the counter and I help the register person out. We spend fifteen minutes scanning CDs, pulling CDs out of our filing cabinets, all the while nodding along to his inane conversation. Susanna and The Mini-Fridge lurk in the background with apologetic looks on their faces; they know what's coming. Sure enough, O.G. balks at the total of his purchase, a whopping 78 bucks. He pulls out his wallet and counts out his money on the counter, bill by bill. Halfway through, he loses count and starts over. I'm trying not to bite my knuckles in frustration as he comes to the dawning realization that he can't pay for all this crap and begins the long and torturous process of thinning out the herd. He narrows it down to 3 discs; when I give him the new total, he says its too much and narrows it down to one disc, which he spends the next 3 minutes agonizing over. I must emphasize that things were REALLY SLOW at the moment, so no customers were standing behind him and giving me a compelling reason to tell him to make up his mind and get moving. The whole time his guardians keep miming "sorry, really sorry", to which I mentally shot back ('fuck off. You knew this was going to happen. Why not tell him he can't buy these records in the first place, so you can spare us this colossal waste of time?"). Eventually, he comes to the reluctant decision that he won't buy anything and steps away from the reg, leaving 50 CDs behind for us to file away and put back in order.
I figure that's the end of it. Fifteen minutes later, Susanna And The Mini-Fridge return. Apparently, O.G. has locked himself in the Men's Room and is refusing to come out. I've dealt with a lot of weird situations in customer service, but someone barricading themselves inside a bathroom is a new one. They tell me to just go frighten him. "Bang on the door, and if he doesn't come out, tell him you'll call the police". Their attitude just screams "hey, this happens all the time, never a dull moment with this fellow". My attitude screams "I hope a rogue satellite hurtles down through our atmosphere and turns your car into superheated shrapnel". I stomp over to the Men's Room and I'm instantly assailed with the stench of the damned. O.G. may be barricading himself in the bathroom, but at least he possesses enough good sense to use it for what its intended for. I start banging hard on the door, trying not to shout, even though my face is full of hot blood and my teeth are grinding away like a chainsaw pressed against an oak tree. I say "sir, you need to leave". A minute passes with no response. The smell is still present, and I repress the dual urge to howl in impotent rage and gag at the same time. In the background, Susanna And The Mini-Fridge continue their Oh-So Sorry Dance. Banging again, I repeat my message, letting a little anger creep in. Two minutes later he says OK, flushes the toilet, and BOOM! He's out the door. Dirty bird didn't even wash his hands. Susanna mouths a "thank you" at me as they walk away. I bite back the urge to shout "A PLAGUE ON YOUR HOUSE, BANGLES WITCH!" and just nod and watch as they head out the door.
Now, I have a nephew with Downs Syndrome, so whenever I'm around the mentally handicapped, I feel two disparate emotions. One is sadness for their condition. The other, I hate to admit, is revulsion. The thought that my beautiful two year old nephew will grow up to be one of THOSE people... its hard to accept. Maybe that was part of the reason the above incident crept under my skin so much, even if Susanna and Fraulein Mini-Fridge weren't so freaking annoying.
On the bright side: no other problem customers that day. No Joey Poop-Pants, no Cassette Guy pervert, no Paul With The Requests. Best of all: no screeching children.
Work aside: the last two days were good ones. I watched Enron: The Smartest Guys In The Room, yesterday, and it was quite a good documentary (the first hour is slow going, but the second hour picks up serious steam; the recorded conversations of Enron traders gloating over the California energy crisis as it happens made me want to take out my TV Elvis-style). Aside from that, patient readers, I have nothing else to add and nothing else to say, other than good night and good luck to all of you tomorrow (be it work, personal stuff, etc).
Two confessions that are more or less on topic here:
1.) I've never done meth, but I've done a few other recreational substances, and under the influence of most of them I suspect I'd find that Lautrec/Anarchism book mighty entertaining. Don't know if that says more about meth, or me. Ahhh tweakers.
2.) As a middle schooler I loved Michener. Well, I only read three of his that I can recall: The Source, Chesapeake, and Poland. The first one I loved, and by I'd finished the third I knew enough to be done with him. But back in '93 I was into that crap. Also: Ken Follet. I didn't know any better.