Saturday morning, the store had opened two hours earlier. The Ticketmaster computer had malfunctioned and I tried to reboot without phoning their helpline for (non)support. Chris knelt across the floor, removing expired items from the HOLD box.
"See those two guys?" Sonnorson walked up. " I ordered them to leave. Started asking me questions in Spanish. I don't have time for that shit," he sneered. Sonnorson was as dangerous as warm beer.
"Dude, they probably wanted to know where the Tejano section was. Send them to me. I can mangle Spanish."
"Screw 'em, they were just a pair of wetbacks. They never have any money." He grimaced.
"What did you say?"
"I know, there's Mexicans and there's wetbacks, not that there's any difference."
I stood there, speechless.
"Oh, sorry, man," Sonnorson shifted behind the counter and noticed Chris, "nothing personal."
"What is the fucking matter with you?"
"I can't believe you just said that!" Chris was upset. He was stunned, so was I.
Sonnorson jutted his chin out. "Look, I said I was sorry," he frowned, then sauntered away.
"Did you -- I still can't -- I mean, I'm really -- " Chris struggled for words.
"Fuck that. Watch the front."
I trailed Sonnorson, walked right past him at the Listening Center, walked into the Back Office.
I was a cold person, disconnected, and I handled problems quietly. This instance, however, demanded a personality with a hotter temper. The Boss. I completely ratted out Sonnorson. As predicted, The Boss dropped everything and charged out of the Office. Sonnorson confessed and apologized ... again. He made it clear, however, the incident was no big deal, which propelled The Boss towards Jupiter.
The Boss wrote him up on the spot. One strike. I co-signed.
I should have felt satisfied. I wasn't.
Confession: I lived in the Mexican section of town, the barrio, my favorite neighborhood in the city. I liked Chris. I had known him since he was ten. That didn't stop me from tormenting him, but I badgered most people.
Sonnorson ... I did not like. He was a strutting bully with a chip on his shoulder. He was vain, boastful, angry. How on earth had he passed Blockbuster's acclaimed psych test? His agreeability quotient was zilch. He was sullen, forever convinced he'd been cheated. Cheated of what? I didn't know. Life's free prize.
Following the reprimand he swerved out of his way to suck up nicely to everyone. That was worse. Even a simple compliment was delivered as if he was choking out vomit. Towards the girls, his behavior plummeted.
Sonnorson fired up the old redneck charm. Heather and Sarah were prime targets. He deployed the whining, pleading, begging technique for requesting dates. Wonder how many females out there rated that method as favorite?
Sarah went out with him once, and hated herself afterward. Explained she felt sorry for him, until he spent most of the evening slamming old girlfriends, jilted dates, and slag bunnies in general. Sonnorson had sour notions about females. He lived alone with Mom.
He enjoyed better success with Heather, who partied with Sonnorson for two weeks and drank herself into a fencepost every time. She never commented; if asked, she shook her head like she'd seen a cockroach colony. He never repeated details, either. Nothing happened, or something disappointing.
After he struck out with the few store hotties inclined to pity him, he attempted customers. Failed. Female clients entered pre-dowsed with boutique pest spray, Sonnorson Repellent. Still, there remained the great salvation for the discontented, the broken hearted, the rejected.
The Internet.
Sonnorson began corresponding with a California model. Who starred in motion pictures. He showed us photos.
"Looks like Miss Novem-Ber," Joe said knowingly.
Barely clad centerfold from a gentleman's monthly. Sonnorson had not scored a model. The image was bogus. In reality, she could have been a chubby, overweight MALE convict with a skin rash. Nobody gave Sonnorson their second opinion, or warned him. Three months on, he and his love starved pickle drove west. Destination, Southern California. The Valley.
"Didn't you used to live in Los Angeles, Worth Dogg?" someone asked.
"Yes ... million years ago. Only one type of movies filmed in the Valley now. San Fernando Valley, porn capitol USA."
"Huh. So Sonar-Conn might be doggy riding in triple X."
"Maybe. Straight, gay, bi. You takes your drugs and assumes your positions."
Three weeks later, Sonnorson returned to work. Frowning.
Miss November was not a model, was not an actress. Instead, he found a flabby 30 something single mother with two "dumb-as-chicken-nuggets" kids. The kids had different dads, too.
"She just really wasn't my type," he scowled. "I'd been bait and switched."
"What kind of switch did you get, Sonar-Conn?"
"Well, I was there. I drove all that way, after all. And one ham sandwich looks the same as another."
He uttered that classic line in front of one of the girls who dropped her jaw. I told myself to remember that winner.
"So, yeah, I stayed a week. Slept in my car in her driveway. Kids went to school, fire in the hole."
Sonnorson came back because he ran out of money. Otherwise, he and Miss Ham Sandwich ...
When he returned, he went back to flaming out with unappreciative women-folk. Then struck up an unlikely friendship with Payton, the book manager. This was strange because Payton was gay, liberal, and intelligent. Sonnorson, on the other hand ...
Anyway, Sonnorson started going to clubs with Payton. Gay clubs. Sonnorson was completely unaware or innocent. Didn't grasp that the clubs were 100% male, or wonder why all the males danced shirtless. He danced shirtless, too. Brought us photos. Unlike the shots of Miss November, we could easily recognize Sonnorson and Payton, shaking their booties.
I confronted Payton once, asked him what he was thinking.
"Oh," he sighed, "this is harmless. This isn't going anywhere. Don't give me a hard time, please."
Payton was alright in my book. With everyone. We accommodated him.
The Boss apparently suffered a mental breakdown. What else would explain why he promoted Sonnorson into a manager vacancy?
Unless it was a trap. The Boss could be pretty damn devious sometimes. And newly elevated managers with keys were classic shrink suspects.
Sonnorson got busted within two weeks. Everyone kept their eye on him, but Joe and Chris nailed the evidence on camera.
There was a prolonged, agonizing back room discussion with The Boss and Stacey, as Sonnorson wove a confused explanation of his mother, a life or death medical operation, gangsters, insurance agents, blackmail, the CIA.
Tangled nonsense.
Turned in his keys, left under stormy circumstances.
Never saw him again.
Likewise for Chris. Soon thereafter he enlisted in the Army. Said he wanted to get on with his life. Quit drifting aimlessly.
Of course, I always suspected payback on Sonnorson made the exit sweeter.
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