Customers: Part 21 - Ringside

ROUND  ONE

     If we had been selling wrestling tickets for the week, I might have drawn conclusions. Wasn't like that, however. No wrestling tournaments, football games, bull riding championships, no Thunder Warrior rock festivals. The week had simply been an ugly, confrontational one.
     First match, Stacey got into a shouting test with some deadbeat customer. I use the term customer lightly. The man had entered with a friend. He wore a dirty white t-shirt two sizes too small. Arms covered in prison tattoos. I knew they were jailhouse stamps because he and his friend warbled about his recent release during checkout.
     Then, either he and buddy cut Stacey & Shelley off at the door, or vice versa. Next moment, shouting and threatening. Stacey and Mister Convict, who was rolling his shirt up, displaying the manly pot belly. The shopper friend kept trying to calm the parolee down. Shelley looked mildly amused, mildly annoyed. She'd finished several stints in the Navy, she could have beaten this loudmouth into hamburger.
     Nothing escalated beyond shouting, and everyone screeched away.


ROUND  TWO

     Couple of days later - - J D's turn. He had joked to a beefy guy wearing sunglasses. The guy took offense with J's comments about his hair, his billowy cream shirt, or crooked sunglasses. Next thing, both guys steamed outside and squared off on the sidewalk.
     I hurried out, hoping to defuse the situation. One, with boots, J D weighed 120 pounds, Mister Sunglasses looked 220. Two, any fight between employee and customer would probably result in termination. Three, if cops showed up, J D would suffer worse than some chunky white guy. Wasn't fair, but neither was our society.
     Turned out the guy was resentful of J D. J D was selling CD's, J D had a movie out, J D was featured in a newspaper article. The man didn't think that was proper. Who did this kid think he was? He used the word "uppity." Didn't mention the second tag of the cliche, but he did toss uppity. Twice.
     And ... he repeatedly pointed out ... J D wasn't funny. Neither were his stupid comments.
     Then he walked off.
     I shot J a look and shook my head.

MAIN EVENT
FRIDAY
JEFTY VS. KILLWATER

     Jefty and Killwater were both Regulars. Jefty came in mornings, twice a week, with his mother and rented New Release DVD's. He was in his mid to late twenties. I'd lately observed more and more young males still clutching Mommy's skirt. The women were always single or divorced, and refused to push Junior into manhood. Hopefully, this wasn't a trend, unweaned men and mama's milk, like in a Mediterranean country.
     Jefty owned a loud, piercing voice, and he took a shine to Mandy. He sought her out, attempted jokes, flirted badly, mentioned that his room at Mom's house had a lock on the door. He ignored comments such as, "I'll ask my husband," or "My daughter liked that movie, too." Jefty didn't hear or didn't care. Mandy was stuck. We tormented her.
     Killwater was an afternoon type. Welder or mechanic. Wore a black tank top which revealed multiple piercings. Bought metal, industrial, goth, heavy metal, thrash. Sing along albums.
     Like me, Killwater carried a knife.
     He also packed a gun.
     Killwater was genial enough, and I enjoyed talking with him, but I never forgot that hip pocket firearm.
     Late afternoon, hot outside. Jefty showed up alone. No Mommy. From the manner he clutched his videos, face to face, I guessed he'd selected adult titles. Spicy. Wouldn't want Ma to find out.
     He shifted back and forth, in an obvious hurry.
     Three customers loitered in front of him. College girls. Sundresses, halters, shorts. Plenty of skin for the Summer breeze.
     Nearby, The Professor lingered, playing with his fingers. Staring at the girls, then glancing away. Replaying some perfect joke in his mind, biding his time to break the ice. He had to be older than their parents, yet he couldn't help himself. Summer was his favorite time.
     "Couldn't you girls hurry up a bit?" Jefty asked.
     The girls looked back, then dismissed him. They were catching up, sharing stories, gossiping, laughing. If it was any other customer, I might have encouraged the girls, but it was Jefty. I let him stew. The later he was, the more likely Mommy would snoop.
     "I really am in a hurry," he repeated, "I don't have time while you and your big butts talk your stupid baby talk."
     What a maroon. I rang for backup.
     "Excuse me! But we were in line first."
     "And we are checking out."
     I exchanged smiles with one of the girls.
     "Sounds like you bitches are just running your mouths instead."
     "Hey! Jefty!" I said loudly. No wonder he still lived with Mommy.
     "What did you call them?"
     Killwater stood at the far end of the counter. His eyes were flat and hard.
     The girls ceased talking and hurried their purchases. The Professor decided to organize the Rap section and backed away. Joe was almost to the front, I waved him away.
     "What's it to you? I called them bitches. They're in my way. Besides, this is none of your business."
     "Jefty, clam up."
     "Since when do you think you can talk to women like that?"
     I processed the third female. Short haired brunette with a diamond stud in her eyebrow. All three were alarmed. Jefty resembled a bully in an ice cream suit, Killwater looked like the biker from hell.
     "I talk to men and women like that. Especially if they're nothing more than useless bumps in the road."
     "You need to learn manners, kid."
     "And you need to learn to shut your fucking mouth."
     "Here you go," I handed the brunette her change. "And thanks for leaving me this mess," I whispered.
     "Sorry," she murmured back. All three were gone in five seconds.
     "Are you in a hurry, too? You want to cut in front of me?" Jefty asked, sarcastic.
     "No. I'll wait till you're done. Then we can go out together."
     "Suits me. Like I worry about some loudmouth wearing dirty, black underwear."
     I could have sold tickets.
     The two gentlemen went outside. The conversation was harsh and brief. If I had actually sold tickets, buyers would demand a refund.
     "Where'd I set my drink?"
     Killwater strolled over to his Coke.
     "What happened to those women?"
     "Out the door. Probably joining a convent right now, Dude."
     "Just my luck,"  Killwater chuckled, and headed towards Rock.

.

Coworkers: Part 91 - In-Store / Three 6 Mafia‏

     Competition intensified. Too many stores peddled tunes. Mall stores, free standing concept locations, electronic marts, bookstores. Hustling for nickels. Despite the record labels' legal efforts, filesharing drained profits. Mp3 quality was inferior, but most downloaders listened off crappy computer speakers. Back in the day, the pursuit was for fidelity and decibels. Watts. Tower speakers and amplifiers that radiated more heat than an oven.
     Yesterday, however, couldn't compete with FREE.
     Wherehouse couldn't or wouldn't play cards they held. Such as in-store events.
     Labels usually set up events, paid ad dollars for promotion, shuttled artists into the stores. With our chain, however, labels were wary. Advertising dollars rarely tinkled into actual ads. Our District never saw slicks in the local rags, let alone TV or radio spots. Labels hurled promotional CDs to Corporate to scatter shoot through stores. Generate buzz, in-store airplay. Instead, Corporate slapped USED price stickers on promos, dumped them in Distribution Centers, and sold 'em.
     Wherehouse never arranged in-store shows. Probably because they did not want to pay for security.
     So we did it ourselves.
     Rather, the evening crew did that.
     The lot that morning shift (Mandy, me, The Boss, The Professor) always grumbled, "What the fuck do they do all night?"
     Actually, Mandy never cursed. To be honest, I was the last Sound Warehouse potty mouth. I digress.
     Things began small.
     Jacob did a solo show one night. Singing an Usher tribute with his ukulele.

    Wasn't a monster crowd, but there was a crowd. There was applause. If Jacob had made CDs, he could have earned a couple of bucks.
     J D did have merchandise to sell.
     J began a series of monthly rap fests. Brought in some playback equipment, couple of speakers, backbeat city.
     J sold CDs and took orders for his upcoming DVD, titled Da Killa, due any day now. Zombies in Como, if you can believe that.
     Anyway, evening crew got good creating and controlling events. Stacey, Pat, Angela and Joe handled the crowd (Yes, there were crowds. J D had fans.) while GG Licious and John prowled the front and back of the Floor.
     Then, Joe began phoning his contacts.

     Joe worked an indie gig for Relativity Records as a field rep. Relativity had reinvented itself from a Heavy Metal label to a Rap one, especially Southern Rap. Southern Rap was what Camp Bowie focused on.
     Joe toured area stores, tacked up ad slicks, posters, banners, handed out promos. No pay involved. Did this because he received free CDs, free admission to shows, backstage passes, chance to meet Rap stars. Hell, Joe was in showbiz.
     He arranged a small afternoon event.
     Gangsta Boo.
     Simple meet 'n greet. She chilled at the Listening Center for two hours. Turnout was steady. J D's entourage was already there. Fans from Como swung by, then Poly. Two radio stations aired announcements. It was afternoon, however, so many fans hurried in on a quick break just to say "Hello," get an autograph, buy a CD. Joe acted as host and A&R guy. He reminded Boo he was available, that he took requests. She smiled diplomatically.
     This was a big deal. She was, after all, Gangsta Boo. Had this been evening, the place would have been bedlam.
     Gangsta Boo must have put in a good word. Relativity gave us the green light for their main sluggers.
     Three 6 Mafia.

     Crowd control was tricky. Joe lived in Northside, as did Angela, Mark The Shark, and I. Northside was "red," Blood country. J D and his posse were Como "blue." Crips neighborhood. There were other gangs, notably East Side Homeboys, Latin Kings, and MS-13, but they weren't expected.
     For events like concerts, reunions, birthdays, parties, an undeclared truce ruled. Camp Bowie, though, was blocks away from Como. If gang members got territorial or into a pissing contest, the event would be slammed.
     Our riot concerns proved groundless.
     The crowd was large, noisy, but chillin'. Everyone wanted to meet Triple 6.
     DJ Paul and Juicy J held sway at the front table, along with Crunchy Black and Gangsta Boo. Autographs and chat, members must've sat through hundreds of those, but the group was still carving their way through the Rap arena. They weren't West Coast or East Coast, they were Memphis based. Even a record shop party was exposure. So here they were, sipping Coke mixers, and shining bright.

     Music pounded. Joe chopped down a mix from Mystic Stylez to Choices. He tried to edit out language, but gave up. It wasn't exactly a Disney crowd, anyway.

     The Professor got stuck working that night, much to his disgust.  He didn't like Rap in general, and complained loudly when the counter in the Classical Room proved a perfect bar top.  Not that anyone brought Hennessy into the store!  That would be inappropriate.  Shocking, even.  Be like ... I don't know ... smoking reefer. Not that …

       The Professor complained, but everyone ignored him.  We had worked with him for a decade, while guests recognized his model.  Guy who assumed all Rap shoppers were thieves.  A guy didn't like crowds, didn't like ghetto, didn't like teenagers, didn't like women.
        Maybe ... maybe not.
        Like I said, we'd worked with him ten years.
        Near the end, an impromptu booty shake-off was organized.  Half dozen girls peeled down to thongs or strings.  Beats were set and asses shook in rhythm.  First one who broke rhythm was eliminated.  The Professor, who knew more stripper and pole dance asses than the store combined, succumbed to the force of gravity.  He edged closer and closer, till he stood front row.  Breathing heavily.
       Three 6 sat in front of the front window, so there was a rambunctious, hollering mob just outside.  Cheering the ladies on.  Falling in love and falling down.  Everyone took videos from cameras and phones.  A couple of shots caught The Professor, jaw opened wide, eyes mesmerized.  We're still chasing down a copy for the photo albums.
      And then it was all over.
      Group members said goodbye.  Went to concert, party, after-party, film studio, hotel rooms.  None of us knew.  Gangsta Boo recognized Joe and blew him a kiss.
       Next, Three 6 Mafia was out the door.
       Good times.

.

Coworkers: Part 92 - GG-Licious

     The store didn't offer email, Internet, anything like that. Wherehouse featured Wee Mail, and no, that's not infant diaper writing. As always, honchos in charge confused stupid cute with intelligence. Wee Mail was Intra-Net. We received decrees from Overlords (replying was tantamount to suicide), and we could also type messages to each other. Instead of scribbling pieces of paper.
     Wee Mail was barely useful. Any employee could send a note to any other "non manager" employee. This could lead to mischief.
     Several months earlier I hopped onto a computer that The Professor marched away from and sent a Wee Mail to Angela,

Hello. I suppose you think this is a minor issue, but I feel compelled to lodge a complaint. Tuesday was Aaron Copland's 100th birthday, and there was no Copland playing in the Classical Room. I discovered, painfully, this oversight when I ventured in - on my day off, I might add - to distribute some celebratory poems I composed for the occasion. Playing inside was godawful Abba drivel. Correct me if I'm wrong, but Mister Copland never wrote for the Swedes, now did he? These birth milestones are important, please do better!
While I'm at it, I am writing fresh verses about current coworkers. I'd appreciate some photos to inspire me. I borrowed several from the albums, but I need more suggestive poses? The sort men like. How about it?
Thinking of you.    Professor

     I laughed silently and deemed myself pretty clever. Angela would completely freak out. Yet, two days later ...

Worthy Man! I received that so-called Wee Mail from The Professor. That was gross!! At first it scared the shit out of me, but then I realized The Professor would never dare to write such a thing to me. You had me going for a while ... but that was it. I thought that was gross. YOU are the only one who mails people crazy stuff like this. Very funny!!
See ya later!    Angela, "The Angel"

     Alas, Angela was wise to me.
     Wee Mail suffered another huge flaw.
     Notes sent to one manager, however, dropped to all managers.
     Got that?
     For reasons unexplained, The Boss had hired GG-Licious. GG as in Gangsta Girl, Licious as in Delicious-Bootylicious-Stupendilicious. Work with that. Her actual named was a Biblical reference, yet she wanted to sound ghetto. She was a home school pupil, whiter than me, with no tolerance for actual ghetto residents, or as she termed them, those "so-called minorities." Diversity was absent from the home school curriculum. Yet poverty aspirations 101 was. Go figure.
     GG-Licious worked well but was notoriously argumentative. Pat and Stacey struggled with her. Chalked her shortcomings up to youth and lack of socialization. Joe, a so-called minority, dealt little with her. I slotted GG into the category I termed "forceps birth." Everyone understood The Boss hired and tolerated her. She was his stone.
     After a couple of months, GG kinda despised everyone. She didn't want the job in the first place, as she repeatedly reminded everyone. Here she was, in a record store job most students would kill for, hating it. GG started sending Wee Mail snitch sheets to The Boss, prefaced with, "I hate to be a little tattle tale, but ... "
     Allow me to repeat - - Notes sent to one manager, however, dropped to all managers.
     After a shift manager clocked in, mails launched automatically, followed by, "What the fuck!" or "If she thinks I am a bitch, I'll show her what a bitch really is." or "How could she write that about me? I just bought her lunch last night!"
     Things went downhill after that. Daily bathroom maintenance. Trash duty. Cleaning the refrigerator. Mopping discharges in the customer's restroom. GG-Licious ... never showed up one day ... and The Boss hired Molly.

.

Customers: Part 22 - Canned Heat

     Mister Canned Heat showed up the other day, wearing a suit, if you can believe that. Hadn't seen this guy in two or three years. I bet that was a prison suit he was wearing. Do they still give those things? I mean, where else could he have been?
     He didn't have his free coffee, but of course Fran's went kaput a couple of years ago.
     For you non Blockbuster Music alum, this guy showed up Saturday mornings. Short sleeves, plaid, and shorts. Sandy brown hair, mustache, gold wire glasses. He was a Saturday Regular, like Ken. Except Ken always asked about new Punk recordings, wanted that bit of personalized help, then bought two or three New Releases. Mister Heat never asked for nothin'. Parked his ass at the Listening Station, plopped down an unopened copy of Canned Heat, and chilled out to 1968 for fifteen minutes.
     Then walked out the door. No, Goodbye. No, Thank You. No, I'm Done.
     Walked.
     Next week, he had another ... unopened ... Canned Heat to listen to.
     Now, we had about 7 already opened copies of this group. Opened by whom? Give yourself a gold star!
     This drove everyone crazy, especially Missy and Trina. Trina saw him once in the parking lot, raced to the stacks, removed all copies of Canned Heat, and hid them under the Listening Counter.
     "Let's see how long the bastard stays in the store," she said, confidently.
     Well ... he stayed a long time. Dug through the Various Rock section until he unearthed a Monterey Pop sampler, featuring, Canned Heat.
     Trina walked to the back, opened the lift doors, and screamed.

     So, he wandered in the other day. Went to Rock, selected a CD, carried it to the Listening Center, plunked it down.
     "I'm sorry, sir," Molly smiled, "we can only play USED CDs."
     Mister Heat looked completely baffled. The rules had changed, so had his world.
     And ... of course ... we didn't have any already opened, USED Canned Heat.
     He trudged out the front doors, a sad, broken man.
     Never saw him again.

.

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.

.

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.

.

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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