The Carrying On of A Wayward Son

During my last year of college, I worked at an entertainment retail store for six months.

This job, my first in retail, was a strong introduction into the world of customer service. In my few months as an employee, I learned the dark secrets that lurked behind putting products on the shelves in addition to discovering the joy of employee discounts.

Not to brag, but I was pretty good at my job.

I mastered the art of balancing video rental stacks four feet high and grew more then proficient in dealing with irate customers’ complaints about scratched DVDs.

I performed product exchanges like a well-oiled machine and was the undisputed master of the store intercom.

Within a month of being hired, I was promoted to a general store manager position.

I was the Jack Bauer of entertainment retail stores.

The problem of being the Jack Bauer of something, though, is that you tend to attract other masters of their domain.

It was on a night shift during my third month at the job that I had my first and only run-in with the Jack Bauer of homeless people.

I had been at work for five hours and was just starting to get my second wind. I had finished stocking videos and was headed to the front register to get another stack when I saw a group of associates talking in an excited manner at the main counter.

I, being the manager on duty, went up to them and asked what was wrong.

Apparently, an elderly gentleman was posted outside the store and was telling people that he was a federal agent who needed help defusing a bomb.

Hastings Entertainment: As much fun to work for as it is to shop at.

After taking a few seconds to realize the employees were not joking, I ventured outside to see what was going on.

Taking a peak out the front door, I confirmed that there was indeed a man and that he indeed had cornered a customer and was mumbling something to him.

The man, who I shall from henceforth refer to as Holmes the Semi-Scary Homeless Dude, had all of three teeth in his mouth, smelled like cheap fruit-flavored liquor and was wearing a flannel shirt that looked as if it had once been buried with Kurt Cobain.

Holmes had cornered a young college student and was, with slurred speech, describing a “24”-esque adventure he needed help with. I approached the two and asked what I could do to help.

Holmes the Semi-Scary Homeless Dude looked at me and muttered something about how I looked like an Eskimo before he turned back to his prey.

Unperturbed by his faulty racial profiling, I repeated my question in a slightly more menacing manger tone.

Holmes the Semi-Scary Homeless Dude turned back to me – now staring intently at my throat. He walked right up to me, shoved his face right into my own and said that I needed to leave.

I let out a small nervous laugh and informed him that it was he who needed to leave.

He was, I told him, scaring the customers (not to mention me) and he needed to go someplace else before I called the cops.

Holmes told me that if I called the cops, hundreds of federal agents would drop down from helicopters to arrest me for being brainwashed and for brainwashing others inside the store.

I ignored Holmes’ charming display of paranoia and repeated my claim that I would not hesitate to call the police on him.

Beckoning Holmes’ young college student audience inside the store, I told the man he had less then a minute to find someplace else to thump his tub.

Walking back into the store, I let out a relived sigh.

I had not been stabbed with a broken beer bottle and a quick glance outside the window showed that the man was now walking away.

I was indeed awesome at my job.

I later learned that I should have just called the cops on him because there really could have been a bomb or he could have been knife-crazy homeless instead of just cute-crazy homeless.

Lessons learned.

Fresh from my encounter with the homeless man, I went back to the front counter to grab the stack of videos I had originally come to the front of the store for.

Balancing the stack in the crook of my arm, I ventured out into the store to put the rentals back on the shelves. It was while passing through the children’s section of the movie department that I heard a voice call out.

“Hey, you want to buy some pussy?”

While I was certain of what I heard, I still had trouble believing it.

“Hey, brother, you want to buy some pussy?” the voice asked again, this time with more urgency.

I turned to look at the direction from whence the voice had come and saw a lone woman, staring intently at me.

Her face was a road map of scars and bruises, her mouth containing only a few more teeth them my friends Holmes had possessed.

She was dressed in a skin-tight jungle-print mini-skirt that for some reason reminded me of a childhood friend’s mother.

The woman, realizing she now had my attention, walked up to me, grabbed me by the arm and asked again: “Do you want to buy some pussy, honey?”

Impressed by her assertiveness but disgusted by the fact that she was actually touching me, I pulled away and politely declined.

A look of anger flashed across her face.

“What’s wrong with all this?” she asked, motioning to her body. “Don’t you think I’m worth the money?”

“I’m sure you’re a very fine bargain, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to decline,” I told her, already turning back to my duties.

She was not so willing to take no for an answer though. As I walked away, she began following me.

“I know you want to buy some pussy, honey. And I know you can afford it. I’m only the price of a bucket of chicken.”

While impressed by her willingness to compare herself to a fast food value meal, I once again had to decline, this time hurrying off to assist a customer who looked like he needed help.

She eventually wondered off and I eventually finished putting the videos back on the shelf. When I walked back to the front counter to get a new stack of videos, though, I was greeted with an unexpected surprise.

“Some lady was complaining that you were trying to buy her body,” the cashier working the front register told me. “She said you were trying to solicit her.”

I quickly explained the situation, flustered by the thought of being reported for attempted prostitution soliciting.

The register jockey nodded; a look of understanding in his eyes.

“I kind of knew something was wrong,” he said. “After she finished telling me about you, she told me that she had the flu and that I looked like a big, steaming bowl of chicken noodle soup.”

Ah, life in retail. It’s a blast.