Mister Wolf Is On The Way

March 26, 2017 at 12:34 pm (Cussed Dumbers, Drunk and disorderly)

I was going to write about a head shop today. Instead I am writing about head cases and headaches. Work-related, of course.

I got up this morning, prepared to take it easy. I had errands to run, and I wanted to drop in on Voorhees and Dr T. They are working day shift at the stores I usually work, so we share ideas on keeping the stores livable.

Because lately, people have been assholes. But before I could even take a shower, I see a 911 alert on my Twitter timeline. The Nightclub store had been robbed!

I texted immediately, but Voorhees took his time getting back to me. Was he all right? That was the biggest concern. Twinkies aren’t worth dying over. I notified Dr T, but he’d already heard the story. It was a “mental” demanding money with his fists. He didn’t get any, and everyone is okay. No big deal.

Good.

I’d started a three-day-weekend, just in time. I’d been dealing with “mentals” all week. Like Summer Girl, a certified dingbat wearing a pink summer dress and not much else. Or the old man with a cane who said he was gonna kick my ass when I came outside because I wouldn’t give him free ice. “Fuck you, faggot!” was his bon voyage.

I picked up the phone. “You calling the cops?” he asked.

“Nope.”

“Who you calling? he demanded.

“Ghostbusters.” They would get here faster than the cops.

“Shiiit, fuckin’ pussy. Come outside and I’ll kick your ass.”

Of course he was gone by the time I got around the counter and to the door. He was already a block away. Guess there’s ass to be kicked elsewhere.

As I turned to go inside, an Asian street-lady I have written about before blasted past me, on a mission. She went straight to the bagged candy, and took a bag each of Bugles and Stork Chocolate Riesen, the little hard candies offered by perverted grandfathers. She stuffed them into the pocket of her dress and started to leave. I blocked the aisle, and said, “I’m going to need those back.”

“Or WHAT?” Hands on hips, pure defiance.

“Or I will have you arrested.”

“Ooh, call the cops! What am I guilty of, being hungry?”

“Just pay for them and you won’t be guilty of anything.” I held my hand out.

“Fuck you.”

“Okay.” I pulled my phone out and checked my Gmail account. I’m not bothering the cops with this.

She pulled them out of her pocket, threw them on the floor, and stomped on the Stork Chocolate Riesen. (I think she meant to stomp the Bugles. Stork Chocolate Riesen can take a beating.) I picked them up, wiped the footprint off the bag, and tossed them onto the counter, not taking my eyes off her.

“Cop-calling SNITCH!” She took a step toward me, and I reacted instinctively by cocking my fist. Her eyes got wide, and she jumped back. “You gonna hit a girl?

“I don’t care if you’re a duck-billed platypus, you come at me or my phone and I will knock you out!”

She ran outside, and of course I followed, suddenly wanting the last word. There were a group of five young men, snapping insults back and forth at each other, but they were smoking a blunt and laughing. Oh yeah, contestants from the Rap Battle at the biker bar. (Let that sink in for a second.) There had been aggression and gangsta bullshit all day long. Fortunately I sold them the wrap for their blunt, and we had discussed harmonicas, weed and peaceful coexistence. She thought her hot Asian box might score her some points with the fellas, so she yelled at them, “Wifebeater! He’s a wifebeater! He said he was gonna punch me!”

“Then don’t steal from him, bitch!” said the biggest fella in the bunch. She pouted as they burst into laughter. I smiled and nodded and went back to await the next incident.

And there were incidents. One after another, tweakers would come into the store, ask for something, then spend two to five minutes going through their pockets looking for their money. I am patient, mostly, but when it happens a lot I tell them to go outside and come back when they find it. Others will let the line build, which leads to more and more distraction. A fertile breeding ground for shoplifter success.

Halfway through lunch Saturday night I swung back by the store to drop off newspapers gifted from Sis, and saw a prime example of this. Perrywinkle had a line of ten and growing. Two meth-head girls at the register were trying to spend the exact amount on their food stamp card, while another tweaker wandered the aisles. My eyes locked on him, and he decided he would take a candy bar as compensation for Perrywinkle throwing his money in the garbage?

What the fuck?

“It’s time for you to go,” I said. “Put the candy back and go.”

“You should make things right. He threw my money away.”

“Bullshit. Get out.”

“Or what, tough guy?” He was a good ten feet away, by the door.

“I’ll just have you arrested.” I picked up the store phone, and called Clean & Safe. He traded insults with Perrywinkle while I watched the customer/tweaker ratio recede in favor of the normal. By the time Officer Tommy got his complimentary coffee, the store was crickets. I spent half my lunch babysitting the store instead of going to Target for dinner. I’m writing it down.

My stories were tame compared to my co-workers. The “robbery” as a case in point. What really happened:

Voorhees was ticking away the moments that make up a dull day, ready to leave for lunch just before noon. When along came a stranger, a large white male with long grey hair and a full grey beard. He stood about 6’4″ and weighed about 300, Voorhees said. He came into the store, marched right up to the counter and demanded “all the money.”

Voorhees said something to the effect of “Yeah, right” when Mountain Man screamed at him to “do it right NOW!” He reached over the counter and tried to get into the drawer, but you have to know how to open the drawer. Voorhees stood back and said, “Fuck you.”

It turned into a succession of insults traded, a cornucopia of fuck-you’s. As Mountain Man stepped back, Voorhees could see that under the man’s ruddy complexion he was shaking and DTing in the worst way. He either wanted a drink or a place to dry out. Alcohol withdrawal sucks in the nicest of surroundings. Outside on a rainy day sucks big wet donkey balls.

But you won’t get help by acting like an asshole, and he wasn’t polite. He flipped off Voorhees, who flipped him off right back. What Mountain Man hadn’t seen was Voorhees going into the pocket of his traveling hoodie and pulling out (and priming) his can of mace. When Voorhees rested his forearm on top of the cooler, middle finger upraised, Mountain Man slapped it. Voorhees reacted, and sprayed half a can into the left side of Mountain Man’s face. Mountain Man stumbled out the door, went to the sidewalk, and hurled insults at Voorhees as he waited for the cops.

And wait he did. Five minutes later the patrol cars rolled up slow and silent. Mountain Man was arrested for Disorderly Conduct, and Voorhees would have to press charges. I advised against it, mainly because the charge is small and the offense minimal.

Plus, he got to try out his mace for free. It’s nice to know if the stuff actually works. He said he got Mountain Man thoroughly in and around the left eye, and it took the fight right out of him.

Good.

I’m still not sure I want to carry mace. I’ve had good luck talking my way out of things, and hope to keep it that way.

Officer Tommy suggested we use bear mace from now on. I may have to look into that…

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1 Comment

  1. Mug-push said,

    Great Write-up Mate! Very enjoyable read.
    Glad to hear Voorhees took control of the situation & remained unscathed. This would be Reality Show Heaven if one could hurdle the legal aspects involved.
    Looking forward to more Adventures yo.

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