That Would Be an Order of Crazy, Hold the PC

Warning: Remember the venting? The ranting? Yeah, it’s got nothing on this week’s kind of crazy, so you might want avert your eyes as I vent my spleen.

Dear sweet son of a preacher man, what the hell is going on?

Is there going to be a full moon?

There’s a solid dot on the twenty-ninth (Chinese New Year for those who are following along on your calendars at home), does that mean full moon or no moon? I can never remember.

Something has gotta be goin’ on because the Crazies? Are. Out. In. Full. Force. And. In. My. Bookstore.

I’m not talking about the mentally ill. This is not one of those “We need more psych wards, everyone needs to be normal” rants, ‘cause normal? I have yet to see a working definition that I agree with and trust me when I say you don’t want me to get started on the historical societal pressures that define normality. There will be essays, people. Essays.

No, I’m talking about the Crazy-just-to-make-your-life-miserable-because-I-can-and-yes-I-must-never-been-socialized-because-people-do-not-ask-other-people-this.

And um, yeah…No. I don’t do that kind of crazy. I don’t do that kind of crazy in my store.

I don’t get paid enough to put up with some nitwits’ idea of a good time when it’s to harass the bookseller.

That’s what we pay Mall Security for.

First there was the guy who found those calendars offensive.

“Those calendars?” says you, “the ones with the naked chicks from Playboy?”

“You’d think,” says I, “but this would be the calendars with the nasty, nasty shirtless men in them.”

Just shirtless. Still possessing of the pants, but not of the tops.

The man-titty, it offends his eyes, his morals, the very fabric of the community he lives in. He wants those calendars of shiny pecks and glistening abs removed from his store, all the stores, and he’s not going to rest until it happens.

As always good customer service precluded me from asking him if this hate of the man-titty (and not the copious amounts of woman-titty as provided by the Hef and his girlfriends) stemmed from some deep homoerotic urges that he could not, would not bring himself to express.

It stopped me from inquiring about his relationship with his mother.

Or whether his name was Norman or Eddie.

The same customer service skills kept me smiling politely when the jerk-off looking for a rise started going on and on about how we “should all go visit this nice website about crushing the homosexual agenda in our country and how they should all be eradicated.” Waiting until the point where I was just about to dial mall security to pull his “Aw shucks, ma’am, you know I’m just screwing with you” routine.

Four people left my store during his little tirade because of what he was saying. I will not lose customers because some whack-job has decided that it’s fun to screw with the bookseller. For future reference, do not “screw” with someone who has ready access to a box knife and who can cry on command.

I would have never been convicted, and he sure as hell would have been shut up. The Police like me.

To the woman who fell asleep in the Children’s section—blocking the aisle—and then got pissy when we asked her to move on: this is not a hostel, and buy that magazine you just drooled all over.

To the women who left their children in the manga section, went shopping for several hours, and then came back for the kids but didn’t buy the books whose spines their children destroyed: this is not a daycare.

Not to mention, do you know what you’re children are reading and how many times I had to take explicitly marked “mature” material away from them? I charged $3.50 an hour back in the day when I babysat, and there has been much inflation since then, so buying one book? Is not going to cover the cost of having to step over your child, keep him from wrestling your other child, or stopping him from reading the wrong material. Next time I’m reporting them as unattended and you can claim them at the mall office.

Right back is not four hours later.

We’re booksellers, not bouncers, babysitters, shrinks, or sounding boards for your “jokes.” As a customer we try to give you the benefit of the doubt, and you are ruining it for everyone else when you act out just because you can. We’re here to serve, not to be served up on the platter of your humor, anger or selfishness.

So—here’s the benefit of the doubt thing I was talking about—I’m going to write off this week of non-stop “What the fuck” moments and blame it on the full moon (if indeed it is going to be full and not new—not that I would know because I never see the moon anymore), and call it good.

But if this continues? If the moon begins to wane and this behavior goes on unabated?

I have only two things to remind you of: box knife. Tears.

We may be little girls but we’re a hell of a lot meaner than we look.