![Floatsam and Jestsam
It’s 4:SOMETHING AM, just got off work. Don’t know what the fuck is in the water this weekend, but the crazies came out and fifteen percent of them ended up at the Maxxipad. Tonight was my third 3rd shift in a row, and included my third retail death threat.
The first two happened at the Alabama liquor stores I used to manage a million years ago. Tonight’s death threat wasn’t quite as threatening. With liquor stores, you’re trained to expect unanticipated behavior from your patrons. With sex shops, you’re trained to teach patrons how to buy and use the products.
Lesson: Working sex retail is much, much safer and more engaging than working booze retail.
Right now, I’m sitting on our patio. It’s 41 degrees outside. I’m drinking dry vermouth with apple juice, which tastes like a vague white wine. I’m drinking because I want to be out with friends and socializing and talking about anything but sex, but it’s 4:30AM and even the late-nighters are snugged away in their beds or someone else’s.
It would be preferable to be tired instead of wired. Or at least drinking a room-temp dark stout beer. Also preferable: Writing a blog post with more reverb-distortion and less flotsam. But practice never ends.
After finishing the grunt work at the Maxxipad, I busted out the india ink and the fountain pen and the index cards that are supposed to be filled with Renaissance art midterm information. I drew a bunch of doodles and shit. Ink and fountain pens are things I love.
[fuck, it’s cold. moving inside to the fireplace.]
[much better. so warm. so warm that i could get into the whole matt-home-hearth-love thing, but that’s only because of the adrenaline from the funny death threat, and because matt has said a hundred times “do whatever you need to do, but please respect my boundaries.”]
Here’s all I got tonight:
The first liquor store death threat was the most dangerous, but not the most hilarious. This was in 1996, I think. I was in college, again, working a weird retail job to fund my life choices, again. I’m pretty sure I’ve written this story before, but it’s pretty good. Thirteen years means my memory is unreliable, but if I’m anything at all, I’m a story teller. Here it is.
Anton Frakes was (not) his name. Huge, tall, muscular dude. Semi-regular customer, perpetual shoplifter, etc. Maybe it was a Saturday night. It was late. It was also in the middle of Southern College Football Season, so the store was rocking.
Anton comes in and does his usual thing: Steal a bottle of Crown Royal or Courvoisier. I usually don’t give a shit about shoplifters, but I was the manager, and this time, he looked me right in the eye as he stuck the bottle into his giant sportsteam jacket. That pissed me off because the audacity was just fucking stupid.
I confronted him; he confronted me. Don’t recall the dialogue or details, but it ended with him pointing some lame gangsta gun, sideways style, about 4 feet from my face. I jump, without coordination or grace, over the counter behind which I’ve been standing for the last 8+ hours and shove him in his ripped gut towards the store door.
He starts talking shit and making an even bigger scene. I go into Dumbass mode and grab the gun with my right hand, pull it towards my face and say “Do it, fuckhead. Make your life mean something and pull the fucking trigger.”
This guy towers over me. He’s so tall that there are about 4 inches between the top of the door and the top of his head. As soon as I grab the gun and spout out the fucking trigger line, he stutters and leaves with the gun and the cognac or whatever bullshit he stole.
Weeks later, after the cops had come and gone and the episode became another liquor store story, I told it to my Pop. “Eh,” he said. “You’re still alive.” I never told my mothers or grandmaw because they wouldn’t see the humor.
I don’t know why potentially deadly scenarios don’t scare me. I love that shit. It makes me feel alive with adrenaline. I also don’t know why I’m terrified of the fucking post office. I’d rather have a gun pointed at my brain than ship artwork through the mail.
I should’ve been a soldier.
“Popped my first two before I turned fifteen,” said the guy tonight. “You wouldn’t be the last.”
This is the kind of guy who likes white girls with big tits and equates both with being a pussy and a sucker. This is also the kind of dude who gets off on violating my reasonably American personal space. And this is the fourth or fifth time he’s fucked with me.
“You can’t scare me because I don’t like you and I don’t trust you,” I say. “If you ever approach me in this store again with your pervy murder bullshit, I’d be happy to call the cops. If you wanna make a purchase, fine. But don’t come close to this register unless you’re willing to deal with the consequences.”
The oddest thing about the Maxxipad is that, despite whatever image you have of seedy sex shops, the customers are so goddamned nice, respectful and eager to learn. But we all need our freaks.
[at some point, i’ll (re)tell the story about getting strangled by a guy in a velour suit, during the college liquor store days.]
I know old-fashioned comments are completely obsolete, but I do love weird retail stories. Feel free to share or email them. PLEASE. Jesus. Lack of feedback is just annoying when I *know* you have way better stories than I do, and I love your stories so much more than you ever will. Your stories make me want to be a better artist.
[image: fighting couple at a bar with a friend, from several weekends back.]](http://15.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_krpdp5XVCx1qz7semo1_400.jpg)
Floatsam and Jestsam
It’s 4:SOMETHING AM, just got off work. Don’t know what the fuck is in the water this weekend, but the crazies came out and fifteen percent of them ended up at the Maxxipad. Tonight was my third 3rd shift in a row, and included my third retail death threat.
The first two happened at the Alabama liquor stores I used to manage a million years ago. Tonight’s death threat wasn’t quite as threatening. With liquor stores, you’re trained to expect unanticipated behavior from your patrons. With sex shops, you’re trained to teach patrons how to buy and use the products.
Lesson: Working sex retail is much, much safer and more engaging than working booze retail.
Right now, I’m sitting on our patio. It’s 41 degrees outside. I’m drinking dry vermouth with apple juice, which tastes like a vague white wine. I’m drinking because I want to be out with friends and socializing and talking about anything but sex, but it’s 4:30AM and even the late-nighters are snugged away in their beds or someone else’s.
It would be preferable to be tired instead of wired. Or at least drinking a room-temp dark stout beer. Also preferable: Writing a blog post with more reverb-distortion and less flotsam. But practice never ends.
After finishing the grunt work at the Maxxipad, I busted out the india ink and the fountain pen and the index cards that are supposed to be filled with Renaissance art midterm information. I drew a bunch of doodles and shit. Ink and fountain pens are things I love.
[fuck, it’s cold. moving inside to the fireplace.]
[much better. so warm. so warm that i could get into the whole matt-home-hearth-love thing, but that’s only because of the adrenaline from the funny death threat, and because matt has said a hundred times “do whatever you need to do, but please respect my boundaries.”]
Here’s all I got tonight:
The first liquor store death threat was the most dangerous, but not the most hilarious. This was in 1996, I think. I was in college, again, working a weird retail job to fund my life choices, again. I’m pretty sure I’ve written this story before, but it’s pretty good. Thirteen years means my memory is unreliable, but if I’m anything at all, I’m a story teller. Here it is.
Anton Frakes was (not) his name. Huge, tall, muscular dude. Semi-regular customer, perpetual shoplifter, etc. Maybe it was a Saturday night. It was late. It was also in the middle of Southern College Football Season, so the store was rocking.
Anton comes in and does his usual thing: Steal a bottle of Crown Royal or Courvoisier. I usually don’t give a shit about shoplifters, but I was the manager, and this time, he looked me right in the eye as he stuck the bottle into his giant sportsteam jacket. That pissed me off because the audacity was just fucking stupid.
I confronted him; he confronted me. Don’t recall the dialogue or details, but it ended with him pointing some lame gangsta gun, sideways style, about 4 feet from my face. I jump, without coordination or grace, over the counter behind which I’ve been standing for the last 8+ hours and shove him in his ripped gut towards the store door.
He starts talking shit and making an even bigger scene. I go into Dumbass mode and grab the gun with my right hand, pull it towards my face and say “Do it, fuckhead. Make your life mean something and pull the fucking trigger.”
This guy towers over me. He’s so tall that there are about 4 inches between the top of the door and the top of his head. As soon as I grab the gun and spout out the fucking trigger line, he stutters and leaves with the gun and the cognac or whatever bullshit he stole.
Weeks later, after the cops had come and gone and the episode became another liquor store story, I told it to my Pop. “Eh,” he said. “You’re still alive.” I never told my mothers or grandmaw because they wouldn’t see the humor.
I don’t know why potentially deadly scenarios don’t scare me. I love that shit. It makes me feel alive with adrenaline. I also don’t know why I’m terrified of the fucking post office. I’d rather have a gun pointed at my brain than ship artwork through the mail.
I should’ve been a soldier.
“Popped my first two before I turned fifteen,” said the guy tonight. “You wouldn’t be the last.”
This is the kind of guy who likes white girls with big tits and equates both with being a pussy and a sucker. This is also the kind of dude who gets off on violating my reasonably American personal space. And this is the fourth or fifth time he’s fucked with me.
“You can’t scare me because I don’t like you and I don’t trust you,” I say. “If you ever approach me in this store again with your pervy murder bullshit, I’d be happy to call the cops. If you wanna make a purchase, fine. But don’t come close to this register unless you’re willing to deal with the consequences.”
The oddest thing about the Maxxipad is that, despite whatever image you have of seedy sex shops, the customers are so goddamned nice, respectful and eager to learn. But we all need our freaks.
[at some point, i’ll (re)tell the story about getting strangled by a guy in a velour suit, during the college liquor store days.]
I know old-fashioned comments are completely obsolete, but I do love weird retail stories. Feel free to share or email them. PLEASE. Jesus. Lack of feedback is just annoying when I *know* you have way better stories than I do, and I love your stories so much more than you ever will. Your stories make me want to be a better artist.
[image: fighting couple at a bar with a friend, from several weekends back.]
