Now, I've been in retail for several years. And I've dealt with many crazy people over my vast expanse of retail experience.
I've broken up a fight between two Wash Park mom's over a pen in the bulk foods aisle.
I've picked up the droppings from a homeless person who begged me to use the public store restroom. I let him. He rewarded me with a trail of poo that started in front of the bakery case (umm! Muffins!) and meandered throughout the produce department.
I've chased away prositutes who would come in to use the sample makeup (don't ever use the sample makeup displays under any circumstances, ever). Classy.
I've 86'd an elderly crossdresser for taking spoons from the deli and then "sampling" everything on the salad bar using the same spoon. Mind you s/he was putting the spoon in her mouth after every taste. (Always remain suspect of salad bars, especially in grocery stores.)
I've kicked out heroin junkies who were injecting each other in the ladies room. Once I had to take care of a guy by calling an ambulance so that they could escort him to the hospital due to a fabulous public restroom overdose. Nice.
Now I work PT at The Container Store in Cherry Creek. All in all it's a pretty good group as far as retail clientele is concerned, but every once in a while I am reminded that even if you have the means to afford good health care, sometimes all the money in the world isn't good enough.
Last night, working hard during a blizzard running the occasional register transaction and folding plastic bags in oder to keep busy, I was brought face to face with yet another crazy person. I called her "Furtastica" as she was wearing fur from head to toe. Now I call her "Precious Love."
Precious Love needed a large box for storing stuff and a compartmental box for creating a huge first aid kit. The box for the kit was made more for tools, but you never know what you might come up against in our world. She sighed a lot as she tried to convince herself that everything would be okay. The large box was a big conundrum for her. Was it too big? Was it big enough? Would it fit in the other box she had at home? How many gallons of books would it hold? (That was really one of her questions for me—because I always measure my books in gallons.) Every time she asked me a question she referred to me as "precious love." "Do you have a tape measure, precious love?" "I just don't know, precious love. Maybe this box isn't perfect." "Precious love, DO NOT ask me for any personal information whatsoever." She spoke slowly, and with a voice that would change from low to high pitch at random, like she was on a rollercoaster prescription ride. And she would sigh and roll her eyes a lot. Sigh. Roll. Sigh. Roll. But not roll her eyes upward in annoyance, but more like rolling her eyes around wildly, all the way around. It was unnerving to try to continue making eye contact. This sort of exchange went on for a good ten minutes. Like I said, the store was really slow. Hall & Oats was playing on the Muzak. She had nothing else to do, right?
The differences between being a cashier, and a bartender are small. Both people have to stand behind a counter. Both have to handle money. Both have to listen to the problems of the masses and smile. But, bartenders make more money, have the ability to kick people out, and they also have access to liquor once the insanity has stopped.
Finally Precious Love was somewhat satisfied with her first aid kit box selection. The other box was too much to deal with. Too many variables. Too little brain room. When I gave her the total, she said, "Do you accept false paper currency?" Then she brayed like a horse and went off on how all money isn't real and all of it is small bits of paper with faces on it and that coins are not anything like they used to be. "You know our coins actually used to be worth something, like when they were made of GOLD and SILVER!" she informed me. Then she pulled out a thick, rubberbanded wad of 50s and 20s from the pocket of her full length fur coat, proceeding to weed through them to find me the exact change. As she gave me each and every bill, she said, "Here's 1 piece of paper currency." It went on forever. In between bill drops she would sniff, or snort. I needed a face guard.
And right before she handed me her cash, she smiled brightly and batted her eyes, asking "Are you sure you don't have good little discount for a lovely lady like myself, Precious Love?" I wanted to take a break and bathe myself in rubbing alcohol. But I guess that I should be happy that I'm not shock-proof after all.
