Thursday, October 25, 2007

I Came, I Saw, I Got the Fuck Out of There...



5:50pm
A well dressed man in an overcoat walks through the downstairs level of the Union Square Virgin Megastore, completely surrounded by DVDs with massive and multiple screens devoted to various DVD paraphenalia and approaches the DVD desk.

"Is this the DVD section?" he asks me as I begin my first day of training.

"Yes sir, yes it indeed is." I smile and look to the counter and register that await me. Ah.

......................................................
6:15pm
"Yeah, see, I don't really know how to do that, (turns register procedure page) or that...uh...yeah, see I don't get why they even have me training you. I'm much better on the floor, you know."

A blue blazer approaches the counter and procedes to swipe his credit card without provocation.

"Uh, sir, is that credit or debit?"

"Credit. I swiped already."

"Yes, sir, I just need to see I.D."

"Why? It's such a waste of time..."

"I know sir, it's just store policy, I-"

"I work in accounting, I know all about credit deals and all you need is the signature; what do you care if I have an I.D. or not?"

"I don't sir, I-"

S*****, a vocally proficient register attendant chimes in.

"Mmmm, mmmm. Sir, I've worked retail all my life, and verifying matching identification is important. We need to make sure you have proper identification to protect you from fraud."

"No, you don't. You, you don't know what you're talking about. That's bullshit. I work in finance; I know how it works. And as long as you have signature verification, you're protected."

"No we ain't!" chimes in my trainer K******. "I'onno watchu talkin' bout, but financial services be needin'...."

The verbal acrobatics bounce back and forth for several minutes while I stand idly by waiting for this transaction to be over. I look at the sharp points of the clothing security tags and contemplate gauging my eyes and ears out.

"You don't know whachu be talkin' bout man, I know my job; I do my job well, I'm one of the best there is. Ain't nobody coming in telling me I'm doing my job wrong!"

"Well it's no surprise how you'd end up at such a successful career as this," the blue blazer sneers.

I consider stepping in, being the voice of reason and shutting them all the fuck up with a simple "We don't want to do it either, but it's our fucking job," but my mouth is frozen. I consider whether or not my heart has stopped, and if there could be a more embarassing pathetic death than dying of a stroke at 22 while listening to an argument over credit card identification escalate into a full on race war.

I blink several times and manage to look at my register clock. 6:55pm. Holy fucking shit.

..............................................................
8:30pm

After listening to S****** sonically painful, yet boisterous rendition of Alicia Key's "No One" for the SEVENTEENTH FUCKING TIME, I find myself considering homicide, suicide, genocide, infanticide...anytime with an 'ide in it.

I look at my trainer K***** who listlessly educates me in the finer points of traveler's checks, gift cards, and other things neither of us know how to do.

"Uh, yeah, that one I...oh wait, no. I don't know how to do that one either."

I turn my back to the line of customers and turn back to see a slight man reminiscent of Joey Slotnick (of "the Single Guy" fame). He winks at me, and momentarily I play along. The idea of being forcefully sodomized by a creepy stranger on a DVD counter still sounds more enticing than five more soul-killing hours.

"Hey you...I was just thinking about all these movies I should see, so I decided to just go all out," he says, plopping a massive pile of DVDs in front of me.

"What the fuck man?!" a disheveled pair of NYU trustfund babies whine from the line. "He fucking cut man, that's not right, he fucking cut! You help us look for "Willow" and you shaft us like this?"

I look at the collection of customers on line who glare at me. Shit.

"I'm so sorry," I apologize, hoping my involuntary facial muscles form some semblance of genuine empathy. "It's my first day, I didn't know he cut."

"Oh fuck 'em," my creepy admirer advices, "what's a little cutsies between friends?"

He winks at me and feigns a kiss. Suddenly sodomy doesn't sound so appealing.

................................

0 painful displays of affection:

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