I’m a bad person.
That being said, I used to work at a convenience store. Spent several months working there until a serial robber/murderer who was working his way south out of Austin finally made me nervous enough to quit the job before he came far enough south to notice my little mom and pop gas station in north San Marcos.
Usually, when I think about the place, I think about the Beer People. Texas, at the time, had blue laws forbidding the sale of booze before noon on Sunday, and as the low guy on the totem pole, I worked EVERY Sunday morning. And dealt with loud, confrontational idjits who simply could not see why I wouldn’t risk jail and being fired just so they could have a twelve pack for breakfast. EVERY Sunday.
But today, I remembered the Four High Guys.
The bars closed in San Marcos at two, which was when it became illegal to sell beer on Sunday morning. I had a graveyard shift this particular occasion, so I sold a hell of a lot of beer and cigarettes, up until about two, after which business utterly died. And so, I sat and read a paperback and occasionally looked around for something to do.
Around three… the car pulled up. And pulled up and pulled up and pulled up. Slooooowly. There were four young men in it, two of which were looking out each window, apparently at the stripes painted to mark the parking spots. They stopped, pulled back out, and sloooowly began pulling up again. As near as I could tell, they were trying to position the car EXACTLY between the yellow lines. This went on for a while. Finally, the car was positioned precisely where they wanted it, and the driver killed the engine. And then they all looked at me.
I did not look back at them. I watched 'em out of the corner of my eye, in the mirror. I already had an idea about these guys.
Upon verifying I wasn’t watching, an animated discussion broke out. There was much gesturing. I noted that these gestures weren’t the sloppy, fluid gestures of drunks. No. These were the rapid, precise, sharp gestures of people who were not in the least bit drunk, and had adopted their altered state from other chemicals entirely, some of which may not be found in nature.
After a few minutes, a heated four way game of rock-paper-scissors broke out. It took a bit, because one of the contestants had apparently forgotten how to play.
Finally, it was determined that the passenger side front seat guy had lost. He looked disappointed. Then he looked at me and looked a bit frightened. And he got out of the car and entered the store.
I paid him no mind. That’s what the mirrors are for. He looked around, hypnotized and dazzled by the fluorescents. He looked like what sinners must look like when they pass the pearly gates and see the face of God. Mm-hm. We were dealing with the Clear White Light, here, or perhaps mushrooms.
He began carefully wandering up and down the aisles. I watched him in the mirrors while looking utterly disinterested. At one point, he stopped and began carefully examining the motor oil display. After a moment, he began rearranging it, making sure the brands were segregated and the cans were properly spaced.
HONK!
He jumped out of his shoes, just about, and then IMMEDIATELY proceeded to the cold case. Whoopsie. He’d lost focus, and his homies were unhappy. Time to fix that. He reached the cold case, dipped into his pocket, and came out with a piece of paper. He unfolded it… and unfolded it, and unfolded it, and unfolded it, and then peered carefully at it… and began selecting items from the case.
I looked up at him with mild interest as he approached the counter, as if I had just now noticed him. On the counter, he put a bottle of water, and four bottles of orange juice. Yup. Urban legend says that when you begin to come down, a jolt of vitamin C will kick you back up for a little while. The Clear White Light, for sure.
He looked at me. I looked at him.
I said nothing. I stood there and stared at him blankly. He began to look nervous.
In truth, within my skull, a battle royal was raging to see who would win: my good twin or my evil twin. My good twin wanted to ring the guy up, take his money, make change, and send him on his way.
My evil twin had other ideas.
As the stare and the silence became more and more uncomfortable, the poor guy giggled nervously, and then forced the grin down. He took the piece of paper out again, unfolded it and unfolded it and unfolded it and unfolded it, and peered at it carefully.
“Um,” he said. (giggle). (pause). (forced blank face). “Hello. Good morning. I… (snicker)(blank face)… would like… two packs of… (glance at paper again)… Mar’boro Lights 100s.” (Look of relief. He’d managed to get through the sentence, and begin human interaction with a non high person. Now, if he could just hold it together…)
And my evil side won by a landslide.
“Heigh-ho,” I said, adopting a professional attitude and a VERY slight Eastern European accent. “Burwati. Do-bizzo hoksu mitto? Gormuloi boltagon.”
He stared at me. He tried to interpret what I was saying. He failed utterly, and a slow look of horror began to spread across his face.
“Arrowshirt clearasil,” I added. “Ngaio marsh. Meow?”
The “meow,” I think, finally tipped him over. His face and emotions were fighting as fiercely as my good and evil side had been a second earlier, except that part of him seemed convinced that he’d forgotten how to understand English, and was horrified, and the other part just wanted to laugh hysterically. He slowly sank to his knees, giggling hysterically AND looking horrified, like a hero in a Lovecraft story who’s seen too much, TOO MUCH, and madness is taking its toll…
And as he sank to his knees, giggling like a horrified machine gun, his friends realized he was in trouble, and all three of them exited the car, and stormed in the doors…and then stood there, dazzled by the fluorescents.
“Is this guy with you?” I said, ringing up the OJ and cigarettes. “He’s weird. Is he high or something?” Their friend by now was on his knees in front of the counter, giggling like a hypercaffeinated machine gun, utterly oblivious to all around him.
They all stopped cold and looked at each other in a way that would have had any reasonably experienced cop doing a slow, sad facepalm.
“Uh,” one of them said. “Yuh. Nuh. Uh, no. He’s just drunk. I’ll pay for the stuff.”
“Dang,” I said. “I hope he ain’t drivin’.” I bagged the stuff and handed it over to Mr. Natural, who thrust a ten at me, handed the bag to one of his sidekicks, and he and the other guy carefully hooked arms under our hero’s armpits and began hoisting him to his feet, still giggling in horror.
“Thank you, come again!” I called after them as they hustled him into the car and did a fast fade.
No, I’m not a good person at all.
Share with me your tales of retail? Some are quite good, and they never cease to amaze me.
I asked the lead to come over, and she explained that ‘notions’ meant ‘sewing stuff’.