The Mango Shitz

March 4, 2018 at 2:22 pm (Cussed Dumbers)

“Party woohoo!”

Oh, the humanity.

I deal with a lot of downtrodden types at work. I’m given a lot of latitude when it comes to who I serve. Our goal is to serve everyone (legally) and send them away happy enough that they will return to spend more money.

Returning empty bottles is a bane to every cashier. You have to stop whatever you’re doing and go dig through trash, and then pay the stinky disruptor. (It isn’t always that bad, but more often than not.) As of a couple months ago, there’s a dime deposit on damn near every drink bottle in the 8 oz-64 oz range. I love certain aspects of the new system. I redeem my own at work, and am shameless as I collect cans along the way.

But, I don’t dig in the garbage, and I don’t smell awful when I’m done. Others aren’t so blessed.

I received a text from Igor, the day shift cashier at the Nightclub Store. “I just had a customer who you probably want to be aware of. He’s older, white, and looks like Guy Fawkes. Always has cans and smokes Mango Jackpots. He smells SO bad.”

Due to the confounding popularity of soul-patches, that describes at least a half-dozen regular bums. (Hah, pun! Clarity forthcoming.) I’d wait, sooner or later I’d meet Stinky.

It was about 10 PM when one of my regular bums came around. He came up to the door. “Excuse me.”

I was ringing a person up, so I finished that. “EXCUSE ME!” he said again. “I don’t want to come into your store–”

A customer walking past him started into the store, then stopped and grabbed his nose. “What the holy fuck?”

Before I could say anything, Stinky Bum said, “I’m sorry, it’s me. I was just trying to tell the clerk there, I shit my pants and I don’t want to come in, because I’m afraid it’ll fall out. I was wondering if I could cash in enough cans to get a cup of hot water and a pack of Jackpot Mango?”

We have confirmation on Stinky.

I looked at him for a few seconds, pondering my options. I could tell him to buzz off, but he’s usually nice enough. (He had quite a chip on his shoulder until I explained to him that it’s not him we hate, it’s the whole ‘picking-through-the-rubbish of bottle deposits’ that we’re so negatively reacting to.) I handed him a couple of grocery bags, asking that he separate plastic and cans. I was so glad I had a cold. I couldn’t smell a thing, but others were visibly reacting to him as they walked by.

After about twenty minutes, I went outside to check the progress. He’d separated everything nicely, I just needed him to sign the receipt. (It’s only $5, but the boss likes to see where his money goes.) “Um, can you just scribble on it or something? I have dirty hands…”

Considering his payload, I believed him.

I wrote on the payout receipt: “Customer smelled so bad the pen ran away.” If Eva asked, I would explain. Graphically.

I didn’t have to. When I arrived the next afternoon, Stinker was inside, wearing new(ish) clothes. Eva was cashiering, and had the turtleneck on her sweater pulled up over her nose. She looked like a cute Kilroy. I still couldn’t smell anything.

“I want to thank you for helping me last night. That was very nice.” He turned to Eva. “He was very nice. He took my cans, after I’d shit my pants and–”

“TOO MUCH INFORMATION! I don’t need to hear about your full diaper!” Eva was green around the gills.

“–Well, I sure appreciate it.” Stinker went back outside to his cart, where it took him another ten minutes to get moving.

“Everyone agree I’ve done my Boy Scout good-fucking-deed for the week?”



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