I know you!

I live in a small area.  I've worked a variety of jobs in said small area.  People recognize me.  It can be a good thing.  More often than not its a bad thing. 

People act like I'm their friend.  I'm not.  I might know them.  We may have casual conversation.  Hell, they may catch me on a good day and I might be downright friendly.  That doesn't mean I'm their friend.  If I was their friend they would know my name.  Most don't.  If I was friends with everybody I've served then I'd have a lot of fucking friends.  My life isn't Facebook.  I don't have that many friends.

I walk through the mall and people will yell "Hey!  Its the (insert company name here) guy!". I rent a movie at the video store and they look over my shoulder to see what I'm watching like I'm some poor man's Siskel and Ebert and it must be a great film if I'm watching it.    Luckily I was never renting a porno.  Okay, I was once and it became an awkward situation.  That woman never looked me in the eye again.

One of the best (or worst) examples occurred many years ago.  I was working two jobs at the time.  One of those jobs was at the strip club that was the setting for two of my previous stories.  Anyway, I was working my day job at the grocery store that shall remain nameless.  Not that I worry about any legal action that could occur if I run my mouth but because I don't want to mention their name.  Its my blog and I have that right.  Back to my story.

I was helping this older lady find a particular item.  She seemed like a sweet old lady, one of those that always had a wrapped candy in her purse that she was willing to offer at any time.  You know the type.  We were having some of that polite conversation that I mentioned earlier when this gentleman comes up behind me, slaps me on the back, and says "I know you!  You work at the titty bar!"

The polite conversation changed.  This little old lady looked at me like she was just told I strangle kittens for sport and very quickly walked away.  Or as quickly as an old lady can walk.  Sounds like a tongue twister.  How quick could an old lady walk if an old lady could walk quick?

I turned and looked at the gentleman, who looked at me with this smile on his face and said "I'll see you tonight buddy".  I hate being recognized sometimes.

1/2 off stripper

This is a story about Orchid.  No, not the flower.  I don't have a green thumb.  The only thing I can grow is weeds.  Please note the s at the end. Don't want anybody to get the wrong idea.

Orchid was one of the many dancers (they like to be called that) that came through the strip club.  Orchid was in her early 40's.  That alone is disturbing but it has been done before and that is not the punchline to this tale.

Orchid danced two sets and did not remove her top on either occasion.  Being that this is a topless bar, the patrons are paying to see topless girls.  Who would have thought?  That's like going to a coffee shop and expecting coffee.  Anyway, the bar manager called her over and asked her why she wasn't taking her top off.  No pressure.  Just curious.  Once again, topless bar means topless girls.

"The owner said I didn't have to".

"Why would he say that?", we inquired.

"When he hired me I told him that I had a mastectomy.  He said I could just keep my top on."

Yes.  A mastectomy.  A surgical procedure where one or both breasts are removed, partially or completely (according to Wikipedia.  This blog should be informative as well as entertaining).  In Orchid's case, only one was removed.

So, working in a TOPLESS bar, was Orchid.  A stri, I mean, dancer with one breast.  A single boob.  Uno tata. One tit.  This was her story. 

Changing my opinion

I often engage in conversation with the customers.  Sometimes out of genuine interest, some strictly for entertainment purposes, and some I walk into blindly.  Today was a blind day.

I was reading the newspaper and came across an article about a man who was fatally shot when he drew a weapon on police officers in Vallejo.  I have always felt that if a police officer orders you to drop your weapon then it is probably a good idea to drop your weapon.  A piece of advice from the crazy clerk. 

Anyway, I make this comment to my coworker and a customer at the counter takes the chance to engage me in some of that blind conversation that I mentioned earlier.  The following is the exact exchange.  Nothing has been changed to protect the stupid.

Customer:  Have you ever been fatally shot?

Me: Uh, no.  I've never been fatally shot.

Customer:  Well, if it ever happens you may change your opinion.

Yes, that is what he told me.  So if I am ever FATALLY shot, I will be sure to let everyone know if my opinion changed or not.  Let's hope that never happens though. With my luck I may end up dead. 

When you have to go

Not all my jobs are or were customer service related.  At one time, I worked as a security official at a gentleman's club. Translation: I was the bouncer at a topless bar. Quality job with excellent benefits. Actually, it wasn't and the only benefit I got was seeing topless girls for free.Whether I wanted to or not.  It did allow me to meet some interesting people, though.

One friday night the place was hopping. Smell of cigarette smoke in the air, "Shook me all night long" blasting over the speakers, and horny guys giving young girls dollar bills in exchange for a brief moment of female contact. Not too much contact though. Too much touchy feely and I threw them out. Surprisingly, they don't "bounce" when you throw them out. They just land in a heap on the ground.

The owner came in from the front bar and asked me to come "throw this sumbitch out". Perfectly normal request.  It usually meant someone pissed him off. Then that meant I was going to piss them off. Funny how that works.

I went up front to see a rather large black man standing at the bar. Normally, I try not to make them angry since I am a fairly large white man with a shaved head. Insert outdated, politically incorrect, racial stereotypes here.

I calmly walked up to the man and told him he was going to have to leave.  He not so calmly told me he came in to use the bathroom. The owner angrily told me, again, to "throw the sumbitch out".  I tried to explain to the man that he had to leave.  Once again, he said he came into use the bathroom.  If you guessed that this man was highly intoxicated, you would be correct.

I aaked the owner if the guy could just use the bathroom and then I would have him leave.  During this very brief exchange, I realized that my calf felt warm and wet. Not a normal feeling in any way.  I looked to the side and saw that the gentleman was standing there, dick in hand, pissing on my leg.
Mere seconds later this same man was lying on the sidewalk still holding dick in hand. I guess its hard to walk and hold your junk at the same time  Who would have thought?

Instead of him being pissed off, I ended up being pissed on.

Daddy's little girl

One evening, this young girl walks into the station.  She quietly walks up and places her purchase on the counter.  One box of Trojan condoms.  Now, the brand has nothing to do with this story but I am a big supporter of product placement. 

As she is paying for her purchase another customer walks up behind her and looks over her shoulder. I am assuming that he  knows her.  At least I hope he does.  Otherwise, we have a possible stalker situation. 

She puts the condoms in her purse and turns to head toward the exit door.  At this time, the customer behind her taps her on the shoulder.  She turns to look at him, pauses, and then quickly heads out the door.  The man then walks up to counter with a smile on his face.  This whole exchange is a little confusing so I, of course, have to ask.

"What was that about?", I ask.

He replies, "That was my daughter."

BUSTED!!

Dick Shit

One of the products we sell at the gas station is Extenze.  Please do not ask me what it's for.  We are grown adults and I'm sure we can figure this one out.  However, I have seen many people who are totally confused by it's counterpart, Extenze for Women.  The exchanges I have had with people over this product is a story all of it's own.   SPOILER ALERT!  One dipshit actually asked, "Does it make their clit bigger?".  I never did dignify that question with a response. 

Back to my story, we sell Extenze.  We all know what it's for and we all know what it is supposed to do.  Let's be adult about this.  Anyway, this young lady walks into the station one day and walks up to the counter to pay for her purchase of soda, cigarettes, and lottery tickets.  While I'm not sure if those are the exact products she purchased, I can safely assume she did purchase at least one of these items.  It helps to know your customer base.  While she is standing in line, she notices the packages of Extenze on the wall rack.  This is where our story takes off. 

She takes a package off of the rack and asks me if the product really works.  I inform her that I have no idea as I have never needed to use any chemical enhacement.  I am not bragging.  I am simply stating the truth.  In my opinion, if you need a pill to get it up then it's time to look for another hobby.  Perhaps collecting state quarters or something like that.  She decides that she is going to purchase this product as a joke for her boyfriend.  Personally, I do not think it was for a joke.  If you saw the guy she was with you would understand.  When I informed her of the high price of 4.49, she decided to see if her boyfriend would even want Extenze.  Any guuesses on what his answer would be?

This young woman walks over to the door, opens it and yells across the parking lot,  I repeat, SHE YELLS ACROSS THE PARKING LOT, "Hey Honey!  You want some of this dick shit?  You know that stuff that makes your dick hard so you can fuck longer?"  What makes this exchange even more entertaining is the poor woman on pump 6, who is standing there with a look on her face that asks "Did I really just hear that?"  Yes you did.  You and everyone else within a 6 block radius.

Maury! I found your next guest!

One day, I was working at the convenience store when three young ladies walked in.   I use that term loosely. Hoochies, hos, tramps, street rats. Those might be more descriptive. Anyways, who am I to judge.

Back to my story. These "ladies" come in and are trying to decide what cheap sunglasses go best with their outift or something equally stupid like that.  All I hear is "blah blah blah, duh, oh my god." Once again, who am I to judge?

They are soon joined by the last member of their hoochie quartet.This one is pregnant and she is so fucking pissed.  I know this because her baby bump is framed by her midriff tanktop and she came in the door and said "I'm so fucking pissed!"  If anything, I am observant.

Although I try not to listen in on this conversation, the volume at which hoochie #4 is yelling makes that an impossible attempt.   From what I could understand, she had just been told that some guy was speaking ill of her.  I do not remember the guy's name, so we'll call him Bob.    Apparently, Bob was telling everybody that he "hit that" and that he was her "baby daddy". These are the actual terms used in conversation.  Now, while this may sound like an everyday conversation between ladies of such high standing, it is what was said next that makes this story memorable. 

Hoochie #4 finished off this conversation with this classic exchange.  I quote, "He wishes he got a piece of this.  There only three guys who could be this baby daddy and he ain't one of them!"  I thought this only happened on Maury Povich.  She needs to get the test results in.