I had one of these crazy people once (ok, like every day) when I was a cashier at a gas station.
It’s 10:59. I’ve already cleaned the coffee pots and vacuumed in preparation for closing at 11:00. I grab the keys, walk to the front door, and am only milliseconds from inserting key into lock when some crazy old bat almost hits me in the face with the door.
“Oh, are you closed?”
“No, I haven’t shut down the registers yet, although I am closing. How can I help you?” Heck, I try to be nice.
“I’ll just be a minute. I need $20 dollars on that station wagon.” Ring up sale, authorize pump, hold hand out expectantly. “Oh! Just a minute, where did I put that money?” <Digging through a purse so large I literally doubt it would meet airline specifications for carry-on luggage. Pulling out wads of receipts, empty gum wrappers, bottles of pills, her latest knitting project, paper clips, rubber bands, jars of strawberry preserves, and finally, a wallet the size of a briefcase.> Guess what? After checking every pocket and zippered compartment, there’s no money in it. “Oh, let me just run out to my car, I’ve misplaced my money.” If she hadn’t left half her shit on the counter I would have locked the door, told her through the window that the gas pumps shut off automatically at 11:00, and directed her to the gas station a few miles down the road.
She dawdles out to her station wagon, and I watch through the glass. It’s piled to the roof full of crap, no bullshit, and it takes her at least 10 minutes to rummage around and find her money. She comes back in with cash, pays for the gas, and then proceeds to try to fit all of her shit back in the body-bag she’s using for a pocket book. Halfway through this, she realizes somehow that she didn’t have as much money as she thought. (“I thought I had X dollars, where did the rest go?”) So she pulls everything out again and starts digging around for the misplaced money.
“You don’t mind, dear, do you?”
“Actually, ma’am, I was supposed to close 15 minutes ago.”
“Oh, I’ll just be another minute.”
She keeps digging around, and empties the entire contents of this massive handbag on the counter. I swear to Og, she could have comfortably housed a family of four in that thing, and fed them for weeks on the random crackers and bottles of water she had stuffed in there. I’m trying not to be rude, but it’s nearly 11:30, I’ve been there since noon, and I still have to finish my paperwork and count out the drawer. So all I can do is stand there, slack-jawed, amazed at the spectacular amount of shit she lugs around on a daily basis. Wetnaps, aspirin, several pairs of glasses, extra socks, plastic baggies, nuts, bolts, a wrench, and Og knows what else. I don’t press the issue, I’ve already told her I was closing twice, so nothing less than screaming at her to fuck off is going to get her out of here.
She eventually solves the mystery of the vanishing greenbacks and finally replaces the contents of her mammoth handbag, leaving me extremely bad-tempered and almost an hour late getting home. Really, she might have been one of those pack-rat types afflicted with Hoard and Clutter syndrome or whatever they’re calling it, but don’t foist your insanity upon me. She obviously had some inkling that this might inconvenience me, because she asked if I minded, but apparently didn’t give a shit.
In retrospect, I should have swept the entire contents of her purse into (several) plastic bags, handed them over, and politely (or not) escorted her out.
