Tallboy Down!

April 6, 2010 at 12:07 pm (Cussed Dumbers)

I tolerate a lot of nonsense at work. (Grinder says I also create a lot of nonsense at work.) Putting up with the public is part of the fun of my job. I deal with all cross-sections of life, from the filthy rich to the just plain filthy. I give directions to tourists, recommend wines that I’ve not tasted, and provide advice on which downtown streets are safe and which to avoid. All the while keeping one eye on the merchandise. Believe it or not, there are some unsavory types that will steal from you. Some are very good at it. Sometimes we get the stuff back, sometimes we don’t.

Sometimes we get something better…

When no one requires my immediate attention, I will wander out to the sidewalk to watch the world go by, spout howdies with the neighbors, flirt with the pretty girls. I get a charge out of watching ne’er-do-wells cross the street to avoid my steely gaze. (Yeah, I remember you, Mister Little Debbie Thief…) A nod and a smile at the cops driving by, a “How you doin’?” to my favorite bell-bottomed hooker.

A couple comes around the corner, hugging the wall to avoid the downpour. They are obviously on the way to drunk. I hope they don’t come in. Please don’t come in.

Of course, they are coming in.

The gal looks like a clean gutter-punk. The guy is older, probably 40, and looks like a dreadlocked Brazilian version of Roman Polanski. I fall in behind as they enter the store.

I don’t think they realized I work there…

Dread-Roman looks around and, in less than the blink of an eye, grabs a 20-ounce bottle of caffeine-free Diet Coke. I come around him as he adjusts his jacket, and there is no bottle of pop. Customer service just got interesting.

“Let’s have the soda,” I say.

“What?” he asks, playing dumb. (Not a stretch.)

“Give me the pop you just put in your jacket.” I pat the side of his puffy white hood-rat ski coat, and a heavy object hits the floor. It was not a 20-ounce bottle of caffeine-free Diet Coke.

Motherlode! It was a 24-ounce can of Camo Black Ice. Now I have his attention!

I bent down and snagged the beer before he could. “Give me a my fucking beer!” he yelled.

“Give me my fucking soda,” I replied.

“Aah!” He rustled around and pulled the pop out of his sleeve. He must have forgotten to unload his last theft. (So far, I’m getting the better deal. A can of Camo in my neighborhood is about $1.35. Downtown, when you can find them, they cost $2.75.) I held the beer for ransom, put the pilfered soda on the counter and began herding Dread-Roman toward the door. I gave him a not-too-gentle shove out the door.

“Give-a me my fucking beer!” He was trying to stinkeye me, but it came off as comical. I kept seeing Roman Polanski in Chinatown. You know what we do to thieving fellas, kittycat?

If I were still drinking, I would have kept the beer and dared him to call a cop, then enjoyed an extra-strong Big Gulp on the bus ride home. But no, I’m not doing that these days.Still, it chapped my hide to just hand back what would surely make him even more drunk and obnoxious. As I “handed” it back, the can “slipped” and bounced, hard, three or four times on its way to the curb, where it rolled off the curb and under a parked car. Oh well, it’ll be clean with all that gutter run-off rinsing over it…

While he crawled around on the wet sidewalk, I went inside and called Clean & Safe. Bicycle Butch is rarely more than two minutes away, and he rolled up just as Dread-Roman was getting his attitude back. He came to the door and began muttering incoherent threats, then saw Butch and thought better of it. I waved a middle finger at him as he wandered off. I told Butch what happened. “Give him about five minutes and roll up on him. I’d bet he’ll have an open beer. Whatever he isn’t wearing, that is…”

“Did you shake his beer?” Butch asked with a smile.

“Damn, wish I’d thought to. Well… it did kinda slip as I handed it back to him. It skipped like a rock and landed under that car over there…”

“Good job! Think I’ll go give him a look.” Butch made some notes and rode off in Dread-Roman’s direction. I’ll find out tonight how the story ends.

After a few days of taking attitude and crap from the public, it’s nice to be able to give some back. Dread-Roman is no longer welcome at Master P’s, and I won’t have a problem recognizing him when he ends up in Busted! Magazine. He’ll be a poster boy for good shoplifting and poor judgment at the same time. Another idiot on the Wall of Shame.

My apologies to the tallboy of Camo Black Ice. There was a time I would have made sweet, sweet love to you, oh nectar of nitwits. I hate to misuse good beer, but you still managed to make me happy.

And no hangover!