Coworkers: Part 93 - Ex Employee Discount

     I busted both J D and Joe. Giving discounts. Their employee discount.
     "Guys, don't do this shit."
     "It was my cousin, man."
     "I don't care if it was the Pope. If I can spot these discounts on morning paperwork, I guarantee they red flag some program somewhere."
     "Ahhhh," Joe rolled his eyes and looked annoyed. "Worth-Dogg -- "
     "No! Their policy specifies immediate family. That doesn't mean cousins," I looked at Joe. "And it don't mean da entourage, or Da Killa costars," I focused on J.
     The Rap Pack gazed about absently. Felt like I was talking to cats.
     "Listen, I give discounts to people. Regulars like Patsy, Jimmy, Hotmom. Or anyone who ever worked here. Ex employee discounts. I give them the Sale price. That doesn't light up a beacon. But don't overdo that. Don't sale price every girl who giggles and jiggles at you."
     Lecturing was not my way. People fucked up in life, I usually let them. I liked J D and Joe, however, and I didn't want them fired. I had no doubt Wherehouse tracked transactions. Their computer programs were sophisticated, a bit invasive, too.
     Still, I gave discounts, which you knew. Regulars who remained loyal customers. Ex-colleagues, and I fudged that label.
     Lisa U shopped sporadically. Ours was probably the one place where she was recognized, and was left alone. I never asked about the road, recording delays, Interscope. We talked movies. She bought laserdiscs and DVD's. I sale priced the lot. If Randy was with her, I sale priced him, too. Randy worked at Crystal Clear and he'd helped the store plenty.

     Madison visited frequently. Less people recognized him. The lot of the drummer, I suspect. Pat still referred to him as Matt. The rest of the females avoided him and bided their time. Madison rarely bought anything. He usually wanted to hang posters of the band. I agreed, no matter how much kicking I would receive later.
     Being Pimpadelic, the flyers were completely sexist and salacious.
     All crotch and cleavage.

    Madison climbed the short ladder, stapled a few up high near Rock and Rap, gave me a handful more for the fanbase. The girls waited. We shared small talk. I never asked about the Pimpsters or their legal problems. Theirs had been a hard fall since the heady days and wasted opportunity of Southern Devils. Never asked about his rationale for leaving the Toadsters, either.

    Madison departed, drove away, the girls swung into action. Ripped down every single poster and tore them to shreds.
     Stacey was the most aggressive, but if she wasn't around, Pat, Mandy or Molly were all quick and nimble. Especially when it came to Pimpadelic, a group they disdained, and ad slicks they despised.
     If Madison bought anything, I gave him the sale price. I know, but what the hey. He wasn't family, but he'd been associated with Todd, Lisa, and Charles in the beginning. And Madison was always agreeable. I must confess, I liked him.
     Jordo ... however ... what a dick.
     When Berry was scheduled to close we tried very hard to transfer Kerrie. Everyone in the store knew her, and wanted her. Kerrie would be a perfect fit. She went to Borders, however, and took Trina's old post there. Community relations thing.
     Jordo, on the other hand, nobody wanted. Not us, not Hulen, not Hurst, not Arlington. We'd all dealt with him over the phone, he'd been completely useless. His old co-workers related horror stories. Even label reps complained, saying he phoned relentlessly for promos, concert tickets, posters, freebies. Anything and everything. Which he sold.
     Berry closed. No one picked Jordo up. He did find employment. He visited us.
     "I'm here to tell all of you. You work for shit. I earn so much more than you now."
     "Great, Jordo," The Boss simply walked off.
     "I can't believe how little you make, and how much I'm now making."
     "Jordo -- "
     "I gotta company car, perks -- "
     "Company car? You mean that yellow pickup you deliver auto parts in?"
     "A decent wage. A living wage."
     Fucker. This jerk never worked a day at our store.
     "I've worked here over a decade, Jordo. Most of my coworkers moved on to greener pastures. You're the only individual who ever came in the store bragging. Gloating. Makes you unique."
     I'd seen cats cover disagreeable residue, I wanted to do likewise.
     "My employee discount still good here?"
     "See you, Jordo."
     No one gave him that discount. Sale or employee discount.
     Like I said, we couldn't overdo it.

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Shoplifting: Case #10 - The Brawl‏

     The front alarms fired off. John had already stepped from behind the counter and was questioning the suspect.
     Male, about sixteen. Short sleeved, button shirt, untucked and unbuttoned. Blue jeans. By the time I walked up there, the guy had his arms outstretched, shirt wide open.
     "I don't know what it is. These burglar alarms always go off on me."
     "Maybe something accidentally fell into your pants?" I asked, while I accidentally swatted his sides with my clipboard.
     "Could be you stepped on a tag," John suggested.
     A common explanation. Rarely happened, though. I'd worked there a decade. In all that time, I'd stepped on one tag that triggered security.
     John was relatively new. Word was, he was either related to The Boss or related to a bygone colleague of The Boss. He wasn't what I would call a music buff, in that he admitted he had never purchased an album or CD in his life. All his tunes, he downloaded. File sharing sites were killing us.
     The alarm kept going off. The guy's shirt flapped open. Nothing. With permission, we felt his jeans. Nothing.
     "It's me, man! I got this strange magnetic field that shorts out frequencies, stuff like that."
     What a crock.
     Yet I could not find any product or tag. I didn't buy the alibi, but I had no evidence.
     Stacey moved in.
     "Alright, hand it over."
     "Like I told these guys, every time I walk -- "
     "Don't bullshit me. Hand it over."
     "I don't -- "
     "Now!"
     He stuck his hand down his crotch and withdrew two discs. Admittedly, John and I hadn't probed that personally.
     "Now, get the fuck out before I phone the cops. And don't you ever come in here again, Jerkoff."
     Dilemma: Should we restock those CDs "as is"? Disinfect them first? Or burn them?
     How long did crotch sweat residue linger?
     Stacey turned to John and me. "Nothing to it, guys." Then headed toward the rear of the store.
     "Emulate Stacey, Grasshopper," I addressed John. "She should be your enforcement role model. Not me."
     That was sound advice.
     Stacey caught more thieves than the rest of the store combined. Part instinct, part personality. She thrived on confrontation, aggression, conflict.
     Yet she didn't win them all.
     When thieves recoiled, the results were often painful. Stacey was, after all, a short, small built female.

     It was late evening.
     Stacey hounded two females through the store. Both were blatantly stealing. Then angrily replacing items from their purses back on the nearest shelf every time they noticed her. With every moment they got more frustrated and more mad.
     "You can't treat me like some animal," one snapped. "I'm a customer, and I have rights!"
     "Yeah. You have the right to check out whenever you're ready," Stacey replied innocently.
     "Don't you give me no smart ass mouth."
     "Sorry. I didn't know you could understand smart."
     "I don't shop here for some punk bitch to diss me like street trash."
     "I didn't say nothing about your JC Penney's wardrobe," Stacey mocked.
     "Fuck you, bitch!"
     "What'd you spend? About eight bucks for that ensemble? Eight bucks more than you intended to spend here?"
     Joe and JD stood at opposite corners of the aisle, doing their best not to burst out laughing.
     "Fuck this," the other woman threw up her hands. "Let's just leave."
     On their way past Stacey, the more belligerent of the pair deliberately bumped into her.
     Stacey pushed back.
     Events quickly escalated. A third woman hurried up, and the three suggested they settle their problems outside.
     Stacey hit the doors and waited.
     Within a minute, there was an ugly fistfight out on the parking lot.
     The three shoplifters were stocky and built like football linebackers. They were grossly fat, furious, kicking and throwing punches. There were three of them.
     Stacey was outnumbered and getting the shit beat out of her.
     Meanwhile, where were the guys? Joe and JD? Stacey's backup.
     Both coworkers were out there. They weren't fighting, they kept trying to break up the brawl. Smacking a female in Texas meant criminal record. And grabbing one was equally dangerous.
     No sooner would JD reach around one of the girls, then she'd squirm out of his grip and rumble back into the fray.
     Later, J described it. "I was grabbing one, pulling them by their waist, you know? Except they bucked around, next thing I'm holding tits 'n asses. So I had to let go. Damn, man."
     Joe voiced the same concerns. "Cops roll up, man, they won't see catfight. They'll see two males groping and fondling."
     "Yeah, sexual harassment shit. Damn."
     The brawl finished more from exhaustion. Stacey had been pounded, and had to be treated at the clinic.
     Next day, she gave notice and quit. Became a security guard, spent a month mindlessly watching a bank of surveillance monitors. Finally, couldn't stand it, and came back to Camp Bowie.
     Was her behavior towards shoplifters affected?
     Subdued?
     Hell, no.

     Front counter spotted Len as soon as he entered.
     "Gym bag!"
     Usually we'd yell, "Backpack" or "Matrix," depending on the accessory or trench coat. Amateur thieves were predictable.
     Len marched in carrying a gym bag. Yellow t-shirt, brown shorts.
     Len was a sophomore at the local university. Majored in computer science. Had been accepted into one of the fraternities off Seminary Street. Worked part time at the McDonald's on Camp Bowie and Montgomery. He was trying to break up with either a girlfriend or guy. Liked Skittles candy. If he wasn't running for the track squad, he should have. Len could have been scholarship material.
     Yeah, you must think we were psychic.
     Of course he set off the alarms. Naturally, Joe was positioned beside the file server and JD next to the Ticket Master computer.
     Len bolted down the sidewalk, heading west. He was fast, but JD was amazing. Oh ... I forgot to mention ... Len was running in rubber flip flops.
     Next thing, he dumped the gym bag, grabbed the flip flops, and ran barefoot.
     Len out ran his pursuers.
     Very embarrassing to JD and Joe that they lost that barefoot, short short wearing fratboy in the residential neighborhood.
     Because he dropped the gym bag, Len didn't successfully steal six DVDs. That's what we counted when person unnamed retrieved the bag.
     We never contacted the police.
     The approved course of action would have been to restock our merchandise, and ... maybe ... try to return Len's belongings to him.
     Like that cellphone. Box of Skittles. His revealing journal. Computer science books. Lab homework. Plus, that breakup note, written and rewritten several times.
     Someone could have phoned and left a voice mail. Courtesy, because we care.
     The wrong course of action would have been to phone his employer, McDonald's, and describe the attempted theft and subsequent chase. Or to phone the fraternity and relate the incident. Or to leave messages to every number on his cellphone contact list.
     That would be insensitive. Feelings might get hurt.
     I would never do those dreadful things.
     This story wasn't about me, though.

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Coworkers: Part 95 - Wedding Porn‏

     "Worth-Dogg, did you give us that porn?"
     I looked over at Joe, said nothing, but smiled wickedly.
     "I knew that was you! I told Angela that was you. Slipping that porno DVD into the wedding gifts."
     I chuckled softly. "I thought maybe you'd blame Pat or J D."
     "That was like the best ever. You killed everyone. Let me tell you what happened ... "

     Angela and Joe got hitched last week. That ceremony was, far away, one of the most entertaining weddings I'd ever attended.
     This occurred in a meeting hall, near Joe T's, in Northside. So close, Zelda and I could have walked from our home. We cruised in, saw Pat, Sharon, Kim, and hooked up with them. Our group sat near the front as the beatings commenced.
     There was no priest involved, since Joe was a confirmed sinner. Divorced man. Angela suffered her own anxieties. No one knew that, except everyone in the rented meeting hall. Several hundred attendees.
     Anyway, no idea who that official was. Elder, deacon, justice of the peace, parole officer. Whoever. He started breaking balls immediately.
     "Marriage vows are serious. The marriage covenant is not to be entered into lightly. This is not something silly, this is not a joke, this is not a trial period. Marriage-Is-A-Serious-Undertaking."
     Joe stood there, nodding his head at a weary angle. Shaking his hand. Mildly bored. Stern lecture, all those admonishments, blah blah blah, bounced off his Teflon facade. He had flash backed to the school principal's office ... waiting ... Let's get this over with, man.
     Angela, on the other hand, was slowly dying. Her head was bowed, she looked completely crestfallen. The message had been directed towards Joe, but she was the one who suffered. Highly unusual to see Angela behave so. If I was ever marching into a gunfight, I would definitely want Angela with me. She had that temper, and she could get excitable, but she was fearless and tough.
     That afternoon, however, she was mortified.
     Sharon was not helping.
     Not surprisingly, Sharon's commentary was neither discreet nor whispered. Plus, we were near the front.
     " ... just saying, any second that elastic's going to -- "
     Pat elbowed her, shushing, "Stop! They'll hear you."
     "I don't care. Can't dodge the truth."
     "Be quiet!"
     "What? Ain't like the room's filled with white canes and sunglasses. Folks got eyes, don't they?"
     "Sssshhh!"
     "I'm just saying."
     " ... now pronounce you, Man and Wife."
     Like Angela would ever be simply "and wife."
     The ordeal concluded. The couple relaxed. The music DJ woke up and pounding cumbias throbbed from the speakers. At tables everywhere, hootch appeared, flasks and king size bottles. Zelda and I hugged Angela and congratulated the new pair. Then, as so often, we drifted away.

     " ... so I had kinda passed out, you know? Angela and all the bridesmaids were tearing through the gifts. One of them screamed, 'Oh, look! Porn.' and they put it on."
     "All these girls ... uh ... drinking?" I asked.
     "Angela wasn't. Everyone else, champagne and wedding cake. Chick stuff."
     "Yeah. Who was the one passing out again?"

    "Anyway, they must've watched that video for half an hour before my cousin shook me awake, complaining."
     "Took them long enough to get offended."
     "What kind of porn is this?" Joe asked in a falsetto voice. "Who gave you this? And where are the women!"
     The gift had been wrapped in red tissue paper. No name was written on it.
     "So I glanced at the TV. I knew what that stupid video was immediately. Couldn't believe they'd been watching it all that time. Told 'em that was a backroom holdover. Told 'em there were no women cause it was gay porn."
     I couldn't help it, I started laughing.
     "Right away, Angela knew it was either you or J D. She's looking for you now."
     Bummer. She'll get over it.
     I hope.

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Shoplifting: Case #11 - Getaway Bus

    The wallet was AWOL. They searched pockets, floor, under the counter shelf. Asked Joe, he shrugged. Then Joe remembered moody Thad had shifted behind them. Thad was now in the parking lot, walking swiftly. Joe mentioned this and "Mario" yelled out the door.

 

    Thad chugged off. Unused to physical activity, Thad's gait resembled an exhausted water buffalo. Mario kicked after him, Javier streaked out the door, Joe walked. Despite a healthy lead, Thad dumped the "borrowed" wallet and puffed his sack-o-shit ass to the far corner and waited for his escape bus.
    Yes, public transport, the affordable getaway.
     Perhaps Thad assumed two Mexicans would be satisfied with simple recovery of their money. Maybe he felt secure in daylight. Probably he realized both of them combined weighed less than his double-cheese baby fat.

    Sadly, Javier and Mario were neither appeased nor forgiving. Fifty feet and closing. Thad hopped up and down, a criminal Baby Huey urging his bus to speed, barely a block away.

    They gave him a royal ass whipping. The bus raced past. Cars slowed to look, women and children covered their eyes. Trucks honked. Drivers lowered air-conditioned windows to yell approval. Joe hurt himself laughing. Police from the substation sirened up and ordered Javier and Mario away.

    Thad got his ride. Squad car, downtown. Excuse enough for the store to ban his sullen, hateful attitude permanently.

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Coworkers: Part 96 - The Kiosk‏

     Corporate coffers cracked open and Wherehouse Overlords finally plunked some nickels. Stores received brand new Internet kiosks. There was one catch. Kiosks only went to one website. The Wherehouse site. Customers could shop for New and Used CD's and DVD's. Place their orders, type in their shipping information, type in their credit cards, and a Used copy of Pat Boone's In A Metal Mood (deleted, the cosmic injustice of it all) would be speeding their way.
     Question. Why would someone want to type their credit card info in a public place? Where they might be observed? Why not use their home computer? I had no answers. That's why I wasn't executive material.
     The kiosk instantly became a doorstop.
     Customers shunned this flashy box of wires. Chain wide, kiosk became a buzzword for failure. Only employees used it. Useful to determine if a title was available or deleted. Employees could also order CD's, and we didn't have to enter credit card data. I found Used J-Pop and fadistas, cheaply priced, and ordered accordingly. I was the only drone who reeled items in, however. Joe merely hunted around for obscure Rap discs. J D kept checking to see if Aggravated Foe was listed.
     For all that, the kiosk was an Internet device. Coworkers pondered the implications mightily. Ryzer and John were especially intrigued. Early on, after rebooting the unit, they discovered the Pinball game. An icon was swiftly created so employees could waste time playing. If The Boss caught a minion messing, there was screaming. If I caught them I simply unplugged the damn thing. "Not during business hours," I rasped.
     From time to time someone would attempt to activate the Internet browser, which was switched off. Like frat boys attempting a convent of nuns, failure was assured. We lacked an Administrator's name and Password. We were defeated.
     Completely.

     One morning, two gents strolled in and flashed ID's. A roving I T crew going from store to store, uploading new firmware and programs for our file server.
     And the kiosk.
     One guy was completely nondescript. The other was dressed in bib overalls, sported a billy goat beard down to his stomach, and wore a stovetop hat. Envision Abraham Lincoln.
     They toiled at our location all day. Something out of the ordinary occurred while they were there ... actually ... while they were at lunch. A briefcase had been left wide open on a counter. The usual stack of papers were scattered inside. On the top sheet, in REALLY BIG PRINT were the words: KIOSK - ADMINISTRATOR - PASSWORD. There must have been Lonestar Leprechauns nearby playing tricks, because copies were magically created.

     The next week, a second Administrator (Sound Warehouse) was authorized, with the Password of "Peaches." Both were then buried in an innocuous, yet specific, sub folder. The corporate website remained on screen. Always.
     Yet the Internet was now available to all crew members, which proved useful.
     Because it was used.
     Constantly.

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Customers: Part 23 - Gamma Lad

     Bucket was a Regular. I never had a problem with him, no one did. Bucket was low maintenance.
     He came in every afternoon, late, seated himself down at the Listening Bar and put on whatever was preloaded at that station. Never asked us to open anything, or suggest anything. Never bought, either. Bucket was short for Bucket-Head, he always rolled in swinging a five gallon white plastic pail. That pail was always full of groceries. 10 packs of hotdog buns or 8 heads of cabbage or 127 peppers. There was no rhyme or reason, and we never asked. Bucket worked down Camp Bowie at the car wash, our store was midway on his walk home.
     This went on for several years. Sit, listen, chill, say thanks and goodbye.
     He always said thanks. Can't tell you how much tiny manners help out in this life.
     After awhile we learned his real name and addressed him by that, and quit calling him Bucket.

     Gamma Lad started as a Regular as well.
     Over three summers, his sanity went away.
    Tall male, liked metal, rap, preferably a fusion of the two styles. Usually he'd stand at one of the wall listening stations. There he would stand. He would stand for hours. Hands in pockets, legs spread wide.
     Of course he never bought a thing. Always came in with a duffel bag, though. So we had to keep an eye on him. Fucking duffel bag.
     The Boss developed a dislike of this guy. He couldn't kick him out or warn him off because he hadn't done anything wrong. Or we hadn't caught him doing anything.
     The guy, like Bucket, didn't have a car. He walked. As Summer intensified, his clothing went black. Black boots, black bib overalls, black t-shirt, black jacket. Texas heat broiled past 110. He'd walk in, staff would alert everyone, "Matrix!"
     He didn't use sunblock. He used gel. An entire jar for his head alone, glistening and dripping. His forehead was shiny thick with the goo. Doffed his jacket, and his arms were equally creamy thick. Protecting himself from sunspots. Gamma Lad was born.
     After awhile, he must have found a pair of wraparound sunglasses on the sidewalk. Gamma Lad glued them to his head. They never came off. Even late at night. Sunglasses, vampire clothes, exposed body covered in jelly. The package was complete.
     We think he baked his brain, marinating his skull with petroleum sauce under the scorching sun.
     Everywhere he visited, a disgusting residue of glop remained. Headphones should have been burned, but we had to clean them. Where his hands or arms touched, a slathering silicone army began to spread. There wasn't enough cleaner in the metroplex.
     We had to rid ourselves of this pest.
     While Gamma Lad headed to a wall station, we raced to the back office. Ejected the disc and substituted Barney Sings Joy. We monitored from surveillance cameras. If Gamma Lad relocated, so did Barney. That worked ... sorta.
     He shifted to the Listening Bar proper. I haven't actually detailed some of Gamma Lad's personal hygiene shortcomings. I didn't have a sense of smell so it would be unfair of me to comment on the rotting, stinking, death cloud that accompanied him. I do remember one of the girls almost threw up. Customers objected to his existence. Stools and counters were slimed with grease. Difficult to remove.
     As with most Regulars, Gamma Lad grew comfortable. As with Bad Regulars, too comfortable. He never bought anything ... but ... he tried to pilfer a CD one afternoon.
     Caught him in a flash.
     Didn't bother with the police. Simply banned Gamma Lad for life.
     After a month, the store had cleared up most of his residue.

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Coworkers: Part 97 - Da Killa

     J D's career had been on a tear. Couldn't tell you how many copies of the Como masterpiece, Da Killa, he'd sold, but they roared out the store weekly. The Star Telegram profiled him, as did Ken with the Weekly later on. Sales stoked red hot. Especially after a public access cable station aired this hard R rated flick in its entirety. And yes, the scene with the hooker was intact.
     His CD's, Bustin' Out, Solja Deep, and Comin' Dead Serious provided funds to pay for filming, editing, and copying of Da Killa, with its uproarious comedy of Juju magic, murder and mayhem, along with tainted weed and raunchy sex.  Appearing on Texas Hood Connections only increased the fame.
     For all this, this was still the record store, and he was still just J D. And no one was immune from store pranks or jokes.

     I was returning from the morning bank run via back route past Mott's, Hedary's, Italian Inn. Noticed J D crouched beside that bike. Looked like the chain was loose or busted. His back was to me. I put on sunglasses, rolled down the car window, and crawled the car up behind him.
     'Whatcha be doing boyfriend?" I twisted my voice high and effeminate. I sounded like a space-elf, hunting earthman globes.
     J D jumped back, totally alarmed.
     "You broke your bicycle, little boy?" I continued. "You wanna go with Papa for a ride?"
     "Mister - - you just better move your - - Worth-Dogg!"
     I grinned. "What's the matter? Don't you like older white guys with big ass cars?"
     "Shit, man. You got me good," he slapped his leg and laughed.
     "You need a ride to the store, J?" I asked.
     "Naw. Chain just popped loose. I'll be at work soon."
     I rolled on.

     Compared to Joe, however, I was pure bush league.

     Months earlier, J had posed with some stand-up poster on the back lift. Latin crooner Ricky Martin or Enrique Iglesias or Juanes. Can't remember now. He liked the absurd.
     Then, the Cowtown Ballet shipped us their own stand up. Start thinking Aaron Copland's Rodeo.
     Young man wearing Stetson, chaps, gun-belt. Nothing else. Repeat? Naked dancer - hat, chaps, gun outta the holster - that's all, Pilgrim. Several of you are already shouting, "Well, what more do you need?" or "Here's my phone number!"

     So J D wanted another photo of himself with this cultural ambassador. Asked Joe to snap it.
     Joe was specific with instructions.
     "No, move over. Now you're blocking it. Turn my way. Lean. Move left a bit. Lean more. Wait. Wait. Smile."
     Nice image of J D superimposed over in front of a gay cowboy.

     Late afternoon. J D chilled in the Latin Room, surrounded by a coterie of honey riders. Big rap star, budding Hollywood player. Slow shift, early dinner hour for most people. The girls were pretty, flirty, pushing on J, and flashing skin. He was probably thinking about that next project, Midnight At Nympho Vampire House.
     Gloria wandered into the store, noticed the party. Yet, before she headed that way, Joe grabbed her. I could not hear the conversation. Very brief. Next thing, she jutted her chin out and marched straight into the Latin room.
     "J D, what are you doing with these other girls? What about us? You said you loved me!"
     J opened his mouth, dumbfounded, but nothing came out. Conversation died. The girls exchanged glances.
     "You said we were forever! What about last night?" Gloria continued, "After what I let you do to me last night?"
     J D remained speechless as Gloria poured it on. The other hotties backed away from this player-lovin' skeezer like he was crawling with disease. Sex farm disease. Last thing any of them wanted was another bullshit talkin' gamester with a closet full of crazy women. Cooties were a bonus. One by one, the fanbase trickled out the door.
     J D hadn't been able to do a damn thing, because it was Gloria, because Gloria was relentless and loud.
     "I thought we were gonna start a family. Make us some babies. Move to Louisiana."
     Too late he noticed Joe leaning against the counter, bent over and crying. Joe had set him up and whacked him ... again.

Video Bonus - Please pause the Sound Check player. Give the video a minute to load. Good luck.

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