Midweek. Just before lunch, this heavy kid (think Flipper, with pink flesh and a red crewcut) hopped into the store on one leg, yelling incoherently.
He looked 17 and leaned against the counter like he needed front row Ozzfest tickets immediately. "Call 911, I've been shot!" Pants were soaked in blood.
Mandy and I worked in the center of the store, building displays. Who shot him? Was the shooter still outside? And was he finished using Big Boy for target practice? These questions tarried our steps.
"Any idea who shot you?"
"Shit! I did it myself!" He took a puff from an asthma inhaler. "I forgot I had a gun under my car seat. When I tried to figure out what it was, it capped!"
What an idiot. I directed him to the hassock behind the file-server where we park shoplifters.
Besides, he was leaking all over the carpet and floor tiles.
Lunch had recessed for the school behind McDonalds. It's termed a Starter School or Fresh Start School; it's a Glorified Reform School for punks too disruptive for public school, too "innocent" for jail. Needless to say, pupils are banned from the store. Now they've gathered outside our window, heckling their classmate who's rolling around like a harpooned pink whale.
Blood trickled through his fingers. Mandy walked up with paper towels and alcohol, then he started yelling at her. Critical error. Mandy pitched the roll at his face and walked. Customer service, never her forte.
All the lights arrived: two rescue units, three cop cars. Moby Dork now amended his story since: (1) He's attending reform school and was carrying a handgun, and (2) he FORGOT he had a handgun and had shot through the seat and clean through his thigh. So he tells police someone must've planted the gun, this wasn't his fault, he's a victim.
Stacey rolled in, frustrated that she'd missed the drama. The police hauled the gun, booked the kid, left the open car behind. By evening the blood splattered interior was a sticky lure for onlookers and flies.
This whole incident disturbed me and I was annoyed the entire day. You see, women automatically think guys are idiots. This confirms all their misgivings. As I've told friends, it's a miracle women even date us. This Bozo makes us males look moronic, not that we need help. I can only hope that the bullet trajectory, while not fatal, at least snipped this particular gene line.
Anyway, for those of you who used to work here, I know how much you miss these free Springer shows. For those who never dealt with customers, you don't know what you're missing.