In short, bottom feeder. Definitely not a customer. He'd walked in with two CDs. Refund time. Cool green for that passed out 40 year old slag in his truck.
By the looks of him, he was getting angrier and angrier. Because he couldn't understand the counter clerk. Female.
I couldn't comprehend most of the girls, either. Most of them now jabbered like infants.
Medication? Some baked brain game? Nooo.
Pair of big ole silver bearings, size of green peas. Tongue bruised, swollen. They were learning to talk all over again.
"Aah woo wha ooh wee wun?" Heather asked.
"Wuu waa way wee wun?"
"What? I wanna a refund!"
"Waa wha ahh thay."
God. Where was Stacey? I didn't want to deal with that loser. I'd only be rude.
Stacey's tongue had been pierced for years. In fact, I think all the other girls had adopted a follow the leader mentality.
Pat, Heather, Sharon, Clarita. All holding their mouths, saying, "Eee huuu thoo baa."
It hurts so bad.
What did they expect?
"Hey," I walked up. "Can I help you with anything?"
"I need a refund," Bottom Rent snapped. "Got two CDs here. That girl don't speak English."
"Ahh aath hmm ff eee waa ahh -- "
I waved Heather to stop. She was a terrific worker. Striking features. Unfortunately, she now sounded like she'd escaped from Weevil Willie's Sideshow.
"Alright, what do you got?" I asked.
"Alan Jackson and Michael Jackson. I don't want 'em. I want cash."
Don't we all, I thought. "Receipt?" I suggested, though I already knew the answer.
"I ain't got no damn receipt! I need cash. These were ... were ... birthday gifts! Oh yeah, birthday gifts! 'N I already own 'em!"
Like hell. Both discs were in shrink wrap, and they weren't record club. So ...
"Fill out this form," I handed him a refund slip. I wasn't exactly a Manager, but I could process this cellar rat.
"What! How come? These weren't stolen! I don't want my name turned over to the police."
"Anytime we make a refund without a receipt we need to tell some Corporate flunky we weren't just giving a refund to ourselves."
"Huh? Oh." He began filling the slip, then must have realized what I just said. "Hey! Are ya'll hiring?"
"Maa wee gaw wah baa baa caa."
Pat, rattling something about Mandy. No idea what. I ignored her.
"Tah Daa Poe feth ahh aba th thung."
Something about The Professor.
Sharon walked up. "Daa Poe feth ahh ith gonna thmaak ith fayth."
Two girls, boiling at The Professor. Wasn't it lunch break yet?
"Excuse me," I told Bottom Rent. Went to the Listening Center.
The Professor anticipated me. "I didn't say anything. I just asked why they were acting completely retarded."
Sharon and Pat pibble pabbled noisily.
"Retarded is a poor choice of words, Dude. The girls all got pierced."
"That -- Still, why would that make them -- "
Both girls rolled out their tongues.
The Professor jumped like he'd seen an octopus. He stared, then blanched. From his expression, I knew he had tumbled into Amnesia Land.
"My God! Why would they -- What possibly possessed -- Don't they realize -- Surely that hurts?"
"Eee huuu thoo baa."
"Still ... ahh ... ahh ... ahh ... "
His brain had locked. The ladies began to torment him.
"Thith naw ahh wee gaw pithed," Pat giggled.
"This isn't all they got pierced," I translated.
The Professor reddened.
The Professor understood that, his mouth opened slightly.
"Pith off, thippa cub lootha."
Sharon and Pat burst out laughing. Truth to tell, so did I. The Professor was confused.
"I mean, why would -- What would tempt them to pierce -- "
"It's what women do, Professor. Tattooed, pierced, and ... most likely," I threw a look, "shaved. Just like me."
The ladies exploded, The Professor flushed crimson.
"Uuu doh wanna noo."
"No, I don't want to know. Go away," I told them.
They walked off, giggling like grade schoolers.
By now, The Professor had recovered his composure, though not his brain. "Uhh, you think maybe Pat ... she is cute and ... you think I might -- "
"She's too big for you," I cut him off. "Besides, she ain't one of those strippers you tuck five dollar bills into."
His face drained of color. Dirty secret exposed.
Up front, Heather waved. Bottom Rent must have finally remembered basic spelling. Joy.
"How much is it?" I asked, glanced at the refund slip.
"Uuu bedda loo aa tha."
I ignored Bumble Mouth.
"Around $25.00. Sound correct?"
"Hell, yeah," Bottom Rent answered.
"Uuu lithin. Ith aww ffftt aa."
"Whatever." I was getting a headache, trying to decipher Heather.
I rang up the Alan Jackson and Michael Jackson CDs. Came to $25.96. Forked over the cash, he left without a word.
"Aaa caan bee leaf uuu dih tha," Heather warbled.
"Can't believe I did what? Paid some goober to blow?"
"No! Loo," she thrust the refund slip into my face.
This time, I did look.
Despite my prediction, Bottom Rent had filled out the form. All the form.
His section, and the store section.
NAME: Fuck You
ADDRESS: Get Screwed
TELEPHONE: Eat Shit
CASHIER: Retarded Redhead
MANAGER: Mister Shitty
Hmm, hadn't been called Mister Shitty before.
Two points for creativity.
Stacey, Pat, The Boss, Joe, everyone howled.
We sent the slip "as is" to Corporate with all the weekly paperwork.