"That Mother Fucker," she snapped. "Did you see what that Mother Fucker was doing to me?"
"I only wish we had it on the surveillance camera, Sunshine."
"Fucking bastard!"
All of us were indulgent with particular customers.
Most of the guys would help Ken find new Punk. I'd listen to Jimmy drone about the The Byrds and The Doors. Joe & J D helped 12 year old future rap packers. Molly didn't fit in at all; she attracted guys like flies, and was friendly to each.
Stacey helped strays as well.
Emrys was wheelchair confined with a wasting disease. I couldn't understand a word he said, though I always waved and tried to make small talk. Stacey had patiently learned to interpret his language. If he was in the store, we let her know. Stacey was why he shopped here.
Anyway, she started helping this other man, wheelchair bound. Only he wasn't plagued with some debilitating disease, he was fucking nuts. In time, Stacey realized her error and tried to disengage. Too late. He had already bonded.
And he was shifting their relationship into that bumpin' stage.
What everyone had witnessed was Stacey, trapped in a corner of the Listening Center, and the guy in the wheelchair, ramming repeatedly against her. Back and forth, over and over. Thrusting.
"Stop that! God damnit! Stop that! It isn't funny. Stop that!"
He giggled maniacally. Probably had a raging erection.
Eventually, she rolled over the counter to the other side, and escaped.
He doesn't come in very much. When he does, Stacey hides.
.
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