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.

A Shitty Day

I had been smelling it all day, but couldn’t pinpoint the location.  My workmate Jim told me it was probably just a particularly foul-smelling customer.  I tried to ignore it, and succeeded, until the end of the day, when I stood in it.

                It was shit.

                Specifically, it was human shit, one or two huge logs of it.  The culprit had evidently tried to defecate into a record crate which was hidden underneath a rack, but it had slid down and was everywhere.  They had wiped themselves on the carpet, and most horrifyingly, picked up chunks and flung them into the racks (something we inadvertently discovered while dusting a week later).

                I shrieked, ‘Jim! It’s… I think it’s… it is! It’s POO!’

                Jim wandered over, and laughed.  He had a calm, macho exterior, but I could hear the terror in his voice.  We stood staring in shock for a while, before shaking our heads and beginning Operation Defecation Clean-Up.  While Jim picked up the more solid chunks from the carpet, I began to furiously scrub the brown matter from the bottom of my shoe.  But, in my frazzled state, I forgot to put on gloves, and some broke through the single-ply tissues, positioning itself underneath my fingernail.

                As we cleaned up, we tried to figure out who it might have been and why, but drew a blank.  Or rather, there were too many possibilities.  It could have been the lady the night before, who had been holding a lengthy conversation with herself, or a revenge poo from any one of the irate customers we seemed to attract like flies on shit, if you’ll pardon the pun.

                In the end, we never did discover its origins, try as we might to envision possible scenarios.  You could say it was a cold case – literally, it had been there for a least a day, so the trail, and substance itself, had gone cold.

                The infamous Black Books sign proclaiming ‘No Mobiles! No Walkmans! None of that! Or any of the others!’ sign comes to mind when I think about that day, and I always consider making my own list of no-nos for the shop, and adding, ‘Absolutely, under no circumstances, is any shitting allowed!’

                Sidebar – as we were picking up poo and placing it in bin bags, a guy in his early twenties approached and asked for a job.

                ‘You are aware that we are cleaning up poo off the carpet, right?’

                ‘Yeah,’ he said. 'But still, it’s gotta be a cool job, right?’

A Good Egg

By now, you've most likely grown accustomed to the theme of this blog - disconsolate reflections on horrible, cruel people.  But as I promised in my first post, this blog isn't just pessimistic ranting. Occasionally, good things happen.
Take last Saturday.
It was, by all accounts, a horrid morning, involving a few  nice customers with preposterously complicated, time-consuming requests, and a lot of nasty people who just wanted to take their crap out on us.  I had already had an email sent to the manager complaining about my barbarically rude customer service, and,  to use a stale turn of phrase, was at my wits end.
One of our weekly regulars, Tom, listened to me as I whined.
'Everybody is so awful today! I can't take it!' I bemoaned.
He nodded sympathetically, and murmured a few calming words, before paying for his records and wandering out.
Minutes later, I was nursing a soothing coffee behind the counter, when a packet of Ferrero Rochers slid in front of me.
I looked up to see Tom.
'Here you go.  Hopefully your day gets better.'
As I dunked the chocolate into my coffee, still frazzled and flushed from the morning fiends, I thought tentatively, maybe they're not all bad.

Cause women like you gets no respect

I want to insert a little two-part preface here: part one, as usual is a language warning. Part two is to say that this story involves a man who may have been suffering from some kind of mental health issue, judging by his incensed attitude, and language. I don't mean to poke fun at ANY kind of mental health issue or to imply that I don't sympathise with the subject of this story.  The intention of this piece is, as always, to write a truthful story about something that happened to me at work.  No more and no less.

'Can I listen to this, ma'am?'
He was holding Ice Cube's Greatest Hits, and I thought to myself: Today is Not a Good Day.
He had listened to that CD at least five times recently, and while we don't have a 'you listen to it, you buy it' policy, we aren't a library, and only have one listening station. Regardless, I put it on for him, and went back to my work.
He rapped along at the top of his lungs before yelling out, 'Lemme sit on that chair.'
He gestured towards a stool that was behind the counter, which I was planning on sitting on myself.
Additionally, I didn't want to encourage him to settle in to NWA's entire discography, so I respectfully declined.
'I'm sorry, but that chair is for staff only,' I grimaced apologetically.
'C'mon, the guys here let me sit down.'
'Sorry, I'm afraid not.'
'C'mon!'
Again, I said no.
'Don't be such a bitch.'
Here we go, I thought.
'I'm not going to argue the point with you,' I said. 'If you use that kind of language again, I'll have to ask you to leave.'
He spat out vehemently, 'I know what you are.  You're a Satan worshiper.'
This was a new one to me.
'You're a child-fucker.'
How he gathered this alarming insight into my sexual preferences, I don't know.  I told him to get out, or else I'd call the police
'WATCH YOUR STEP.  I'LL KILL YOU IF I SEE YOU ON THE STREET, YOU FUCKING BITCH.'
I approached within spitting distance, and ejected the CD. I suddenly felt tired, exhausted from the number of times I've been derided by complete strangers for just doing my job.  The man eventually stormed out of the shop, ranting to himself, or me.  I never saw him again.