Blowing Chunks

Our shop is part of a large building, and we share bathrooms with all of the other businesses in the building. The layout of the terrain is this: you unlock one door, and enter a small hallway, which has the backdoor of a Chinese restaurant on the left and the locked bathroom door on the right.

On one occasion, I was washing my hands in said restroom, and could faintly hear what sounded like retching and moaning from outside. If I had any common sense, I would have opened the door fractionally, instead of plunging head first into the unknown. But, naive young soul that I was, I pushed open the door, only to be faced with a nightmare brought to life.

Two men were in the hallway. One was holding the other, who was vomiting violently. Everywhere. On the walls, on the floor, and even, it seemed, on the ceiling. They turned to look at me, and like in a horror movie all I could hear was the blood rushing in my ears as the panic set in (that, and the chundering). Also like in a horror movie, I tried to run, to get to the exit door, and I just made it. I could hear the vomiting closely behind me, and it felt like it was a tsunami approaching.

I tried to put my key in the lock, but my hands fumbled. That fumbling cost me my life. Or, at least, the life of my pants. The sickly man let loose, a wave of vomit splashing over my shorts and sneakers, and, worst of all, my bare legs. He met my eyes, but was so overcome with blowing chunks that he didn’t manage an apology. I finally managed to turn the key and slammed the door behind me. Once safely inside my shop, I grabbed the spray ‘n’ wipe and doused myself liberally. But no amount of scrubbing, or later on, Napi-Sanning and chemical bathing, would ever remove the memory.

I don’t know if it was inebriation, food poisoning, or something else that caused the man to hurl his guts out. I lean towards food poisoning, as the head chef at the restaurant next door has questionable hygiene. A male staff member I used to work with confirmed being in the bathroom when the chef used the facilities (not for a wee, you understand) and exited without washing his hands. I’ve seen the same chef spit flem over the ground on several occasions, which to me is just icky.

There is a second set of toilets in the building, which I have used ever since. But just one glance down the alleyway to that deceptively innocuous looking door triggers the memory of the massacre. So much chunder. So, so much chunder.

NAZI PUNKS FUCK OFF!

So as a (lower-case l) liberal-thinking lady in a free(ish) nation, I don't regard censorship all that highly. I don’t like it when books are banned, and I like it when I see folks marching down the main street, yelling about things that get their collective goat.
BUT (yes, there's a but), as a general rule I don’t like to support neo-nazi psychopaths.
Herein lies the conflict of this anecdote.
The record shop that I work in is independent, and is no stranger to controversy.  Around the Bjelke era, there was a showdown with the police over albums that had 'rude' words in them.

But we draw the line at racist arseholes.  For some reason, though, these said arseholes seem to think they have allies in us.  I have personally been asked to order in skinhead bands’ CDs on several occasions.  I’m not talking about skinheads that just like to wear combat boots, but skinheads that like to wear combat boots so they can smash skulls.

On one occasion the gentleman that I served wanted to order in a CD by Screwdriver, probably the most prominent neo-nazi group.  I told him, politely as I could, that we didn’t order in that kind of music.

            ‘Why not?’ he said.

            ‘Well,’ I told him. ‘It is pretty overt white supremacist music, and we don’t feel comfortable supporting those kinds of bands, or selling their releases.’

            He looked confused.  His brow furrowed beneath his shaven dome, which was embellished with a pretty lil’ swastika.

            ‘Okay,’ he eventually said. ‘Fair ’nuff.’ He still looked deeply perplexed.

                        To this day, I find this reaction bizarre.  Did he really not know that songs like ‘White Power’ may be considered offensive to some? Did he just rock a swastika in the same way some people wear Ramones shirts without having ever heard their music? He seemed so clueless, and really not that upset by my dismissal. Maybe he was undergoing an American History X-style transformation, and I was just one element in his ultimate redemption.

            His reaction was slightly uncommon.  Generally these types get aggressive, at which point I call on my boss to give ‘em the hard line.

            Regardless, I haven’t had a request for any of that music in a few years, which, on one hand is great.  It may suggest that hard-core racists either don’t exist in such numbers anymore, or that society won’t accept their presence so they are in hiding.

            But – slight tangent alert - a cynical part of me sees the reactions to asylum seekers drowning at sea, reactions that are cloaked in economic rationality, or fears of cultural annihilation (what culture?), reactions that are at their heart deeply xenophobic, and I wonder: maybe racism today is less honest or overt, but it’s no less present.

ALL THE MONIES!

The ‘new’ Michael Jackson album was released recently, and it made me think of that fateful day in 2009 when we all heard that he had died.

                I was working as the Head of Mail Order at that time (an illustrious and prestigious sounding title that I may have awarded myself, which basically involved stamping and addressing envelopes) downstairs in the shop.

                When MJ died, there was an influx of sales and orders for anything and everything in his discography.  People would wander in and tell me how devastated they were, and what a loss it was to the world.  I am of the belief that a celebrity death is sad because it is a death, but that their star factor is irrelevant.  I never quite get it when people take it personally.  (Okay, so I posted a tribute to Phillip Seymour Hoffman on Facebook when he died… but hey, he was A REALLY TALENTED ACTOR, OKAY?!)

                An online order came through for a Michael Jackson 7”.  Unfortunately, that particular item was not in stock, despite what the computer thought.  Whether it was stolen, misplaced, or sold incorrectly, I don’t know.  Regardless, it was long gone.

                I reduced the stock on the computer, and emailed the customer, apologising, and explaining that it was an incorrect listing.  We don’t charge people until we have manually processed the order, which I also explained to him.

                Additionally, it was a second-hand, $10 single, something that was and still is on Amazon for a dime a dozen.

                Moments after my email went through, I received a reply, in capitals letters, screaming (if computer-type can scream): ‘YOU’RE JUST PROFITEERING OFF MICHAEL’S DEATH! I KNOW HOW YOU WORK! YOU JUST WANT TO MAKE ALL THE MONEY NOW MICHAEL IS GONE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!’

                I replied, assuring him I wasn’t out to make ALL THE MONEY*, and to please, have a nice day.

*I am kinda out to make All the Money.