Coworkers: Part 89 - One Week Less

     By this stage, every store employee realized our new owners were glorified shoe salesmen. The souls who had built Wherehouse, back in the day, had long ago abandoned a sinking music ship. Current owners were steerage or new denizens, clueless about music, about retail. One commonality ruled. The chain was poor.
     Product flow had been intermittent for months. Corporate masterminds issued vague theories from afar: Perhaps the DC was out of a few particular titles?
     We were supposed to believe "particular titles" included the entire Top 100?
     Fact was, the chain was broke. Wherehouse had barely emerged from bankruptcy protection when they bought Blockbuster Music. The chain had been cheap, yet Wherehouse had piled on debt for the acquisition. If profits were robust, that decision would prove wise. The market was in freefall, however. That Wherehouse expansion revealed itself as a blunder.
     End of fiscal quarter was especially trying. Our shelves emptied as shipments dried up because there was no cash flow. Distant Overlords hopped up and down, wondering how that happened. And it began to happen quarter after quarter. Those guys were back row pupils who still fastened their shoes with velco.
     Our generals and admirals.
     We steered our ship knowing what type of support marshaled behind us.
     Scant and wet.
     The week began promising.
     Stacey returned after a prolonged stint helping Hulen. Hulen lost their complement of managers all at once.. Variety of reasons. Without being too specific, Stacey had made some new herbal contacts at that store.
     Several months earlier, I had hooked up J D with the sunburned newspaper columnist. That resulted in a nice article, and J sold Aggravated Foe CDs by the bagful. Now, I introduced him to ex coworker Ken, who penned a column for a competing rag. This time J had a VHS called Da Killa. Customers were quickly moving away from tape, but VHS was the only way they could watch the genius of voodoo weed and zombies terrorizing Como. Sales were brisk.
     J D had two posses. One group were fellow weed heads. Lolled around, sniffed for scraps, mooched, bathed in reflected light. The other group were kids. Ten - twelve year olds. Boys on bikes. These kids hustled their asses off for J. If J D was shooting film, and forgot an item, one would tear back on his bicycle to his apartment and retrieve it. They were primed to buy soft drinks, bag of chips. Or to shift camera angles, act as stand-in's, holler voice-over for crowd noise. Go-fers or riggers. Quality kids, though sometimes they thought too much.
     "You know, I been thinking about time," one of the boys swiveled on a Listening stool.
     "You mean like four o'clock?" I asked. "Or Time with a Capital T?"
     "Yeah. That second one. I got to thinking, I'm going to be old one day. I don't like that."
     Rather philosophical for a ten year old.
     "No stopping it, Dude," I shrugged. "I'm in my forties. By the time you hit my age, most likely I'll be dead."
     He shuddered. "That's it! I wanna stay ten forever. I don't like this Time thing pushing me along."
     I gestured emptily, and he went back to brooding.
     I returned to orders. We weren't getting replenished from our Distribution Center or from labels. We barely received New Releases. That cash flow problem that Corporate completely denied. Electronic superstores had kicked Blockbuster's financial keister, but music file sharing was killing us. Plus, the great era of Boomer buying had ended. Geezers had, for the most part, replaced their vinyl collections. They weren't buying new groups. Our foot traffic dropped. Loyal customers who still shopped noticed the thin shelves. The girls could spread CDs only so far.
     The vaunted ordering system was a joke. Nothing The Boss requested for the store shipped.
     There was a loophole. Special orders. One-stops, Valley, Southwest and Abbey Road, were also hurting. I asked one of the reps about our limits. We had a 5 piece per title limit, but not an expense limit. I conferred with The Boss, he began to hand me large orders in addition to customer requests. We told none of the other stores. The more stores who barged through that secret back door, the more likely Corporate would close it.
     Anyway, J D's other posse, the pack I called the entourage, were prime suspects. Someone had stolen J's equipment from his apartment. Computers, stereo systems, video equipment, cameras, microphones. The works. J knew the guilty was a friend or friend of a friend. Didn't matter. He was financially crippled. His life savings ... his life ... had been tied up in making music, making movies. Now he'd been mugged.
     He and Stacey commiserated on the back lift. Enjoying the perfumed smoke courtesy that new Hulen contact.
     A witless employee from the store below, Tuesday Morning, noticed them, then squealed.
     "I smell marijuana!"
     Fifty feet away, two stories down. What was she, bloodhound?
     Also a born stool pigeon. Didn't phone us, called District. District Manager. Damn. Luckily, the cranky DM was on his way to greener pastures of Media Communications. He couldn't care less. Phoned us and spoke with John.
     The Boss was never appraised.
     Up at the front counter, I caught Sharon pulling some severe shit. Switching tags on VHS tapes. VHS was on the way out, our prices ranged from $4.99 - 99¢. I knew Sharon was fucking up when I pointed at her stack of 99¢ videos.
     "What the hell is that?"
     She could have placed these titles in a stash pile until prices fell. That's what everyone did. Swear to God, Stacey sat on a Denon ceramic cassette for seven years until the price fell from ten bucks to one buck.
     I mentioned Sharon's activity to John and Stacey, they immediately walked to the front. The video pile had vanished. Next, they examined the surveillance tapes. Saw me point toward the stack, walk off, Sharon relocate them ... to ... gone. For years, John and Stacey had tried, and failed, to catch Sharon "doing things." Today was one more failure. Yet, from then on, half the store watched Sharon. For her, the vibe became awful.
     The week had been sorry. It couldn't end too soon.
   J's robbery. The bust on the lift. Sorry business. Sharon.
     Saturday came, Saturday went.
     So did John.
     Saturday was John's final day at Camp Bowie. He transferred to his own store. Six Flags Mall location.
     When I first hired on, John had been someone I could always turn to. He had been a constant support for everyone for years.
     Camp Bowie wouldn't be the same,
     John was Pat's favorite person, a flame she never damped.
     Pat was heartbroken.
     Next week could only be better.

.

Coworkers: Part 90 - Playing The Chicas

     Joe played a very dangerous game.
     Swaggered the store and the club, bold and reckless.
     All while Angela and he were drifting into "item" status.
     Joe wasn't living ... exclusive.
     Erika had a steady guy. Sometimes. If not, she phoned Joe. He was usually available. The word No was never accepted by her.
     Buffy worked the store. Nights. She was dead pretty, and she flirted. Joking and pushing had a tendency to exceed limits.
     Angela warned him.
     "I catch you messing, I'm going to cut you."
     Me? I'd listen. Angela had a wicked temper. When she was fired up, she couldn't think st   raight. Camp Bowie had a scarlet history of violent females. They didn't beat up other girls, ei ther. They kicked the men, punched them, smacked them with metal rods, hurled objects. And they didn't miss.
     "You listen to me," I advised him, "I know from sad experience. Women know this shit. They got fucking radar, Dude."
     "Worth-Dogg, they don't know nothing. I graduated Smooth."
     "Slick, be more like it," JD dropped in. "'N when it's slick, you gonna slip."
     "Shoo," Joe waved us off. "I keep all of 'em in separate piles. What they don't know ... they don't know."
     "You gone crazy," J said.
     "Hey, I go home, my wife knows if I've been working with Mandy or Pat or Stacey from their perfume, that ends up on me."
     "Stacey wears cologne."
     "Yeah, Zelda knows that. She knows what each girl wears. Angela is going to -- "
     "Chill, homies. I'm in control. I hold the remote. Besides, I told her I don't see Erika. Buffy, she don't know. What they don't know -- "
     "She find out ... whoooo ... she string you up like a rooster."
     "They always know. They don't know, they find out."
     "You forget to mention Anna Marie?"
     "Shee-it. I got a date tonight. Better make some calls, put some skirts on hold," Joe began punching the speed dial.
     I had forgotten Anna Marie, as well. Angela, Erika, Buffy, Anna Marie. Joe was juggling four girls. They rang him, they showed up at the store without warning.
      "Late news bulletin. Joe sliced up, buried in extra small coffin," J laughed.
     Joe walked off. JD and I were idiots, not worth listening to. He was the playa, the game master.

     Enter Tracey.
     Tracey was blonde, easy on the eyes, lazier than a river slug. She was petite, maybe five foot, but fronted a rack of pure Olympic gold. She was living proof God enjoyed those dark jokes, bestowing Biblical abundance along side a dim brain and feeble spirit. The effect on males was devastating. Full frontal lobotomies. Guys stumbled about her presence like witless chimps. The Professor desperately wanted to pay for a dance. Instead, he knocked himself out to render aid, any aid. And assistance, Tracey profoundly needed. Menfolk had been good deeding her since junior high. She had been coasting ever since.
     As an actual retail worker, she was hopeless.
     There was no explanation why The Boss had hired her. No matter how dazzling the application, how high she scored on the psych test, there would have been an actual interview. He would have realized her main answer to any question was a prolonged, "Uhhhhhhhh ... " while she gently eased forward, or shifted her shoulders from side to side. The lobotomy maneuver. She was a daily example of gravity.
     Tracey couldn't figure out how to stock product. CD's wound up everywhere. She couldn't comprehend security keepers. "These things don't like me." The cash register had too many buttons, and confused her. The Listening Center, wasn't that a place to make phone calls and new friends? She only excelled at two things. Lunch break, and throwing Joe off his game.
     Not only Angela, but the other girls sniffed out Tracey as well. Impromptu visits increased. Girlfriends began bumping into each other, and realized they were Joe's glorified harem bunnies. Anna Marie slapped him around and drove into the sunset. Explaining to Buffy, Joe over compensated and catapaulted the comment from joke to prank to fiasco. When he wrote across her forehead, he used one of the giant felt tips. Permanent black ink. She quit, wailed to her boyfriend, and he began hunting for Joe.
     The juggling collapsed one evening when Erika summoned him to dine at her favorite restaurant. Also Angela's favorite restaurant. The chance of discovery was minimal. Still, he improved his odds by reserving a table one hour before closing.
     Who goes to a chain restaurant so late at night?
     Angela, her sister, and brother-in-law, waltzed in ten minutes later.
     Angela had phoned the store. Tracey didn't know, and she just ... sorta ...
     There was no dessert that night.

   Stacey, the firing manager, terminated Tracey, for being useless.
   Took Stacey a half hour to explain that "being fired" meant Tracey wouldn't have to work the next day.
   The released employee was excited and happy. She had wanted the day off, but was afraid to ask.
   Then she was upset - angry - confused.
   "But, I'm so popular here."
   All rivals trampled, Angela seized the remote in the relationship. The playa, the club kid, the gza, was collared on a short leash.
   Joe started thinking of ways to get even with J.

.

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.

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