As previously stated in a recent blog entry, (see Changes Are Coming) I will be moving on from my pawn shop career very soon. I actually have a concrete date for that now. May 19th.
When I informed my boss about this specific date several days ago, she took the news with a grim look on her face. She was not happy. She is already losing two employees within the next week, and now I will be leaving the store just two weeks after them. That will make a total lose of five employees within two months, and that's a big deal when you only have a dozen of them. Two days after submitting my final work day, I was going about my ordinary duties when she asked me if we could talk in her office.
My unnecessarily guilty conscious always jumps to drastic conclusions -- "What did I do wrong?" -- "Does she think I stole something?" -- but when she sat me down, there were no accusations or chastisements. Instead, she made a bit of chit chat and then abruptly segweyed into "So, what would it take to keep you here for the summer?"
As stated in the aforementioned blog entry, this was something I had hoped would happen, but as that moment sprung upon me, I didn't want to answer her question.
I'm a nervous laugher, and I tried to suppress it, but I failed miserably. I attempting getting around having to actually say my specific demands by stating that I was only moving on to the ice-cream factory because of the great increase in pay and that they would have to match what they offered, which was a lot. She nodded and then asked what exactly that would be. I told her that I didn't want to tell her because it was so much more that I didn't feel comfortable even saying it, but she pushed onward, telling me just to tell her so she could at least know because she would like to see what she could do.
I felt ridiculous, but I told her. Keeping me there for the summer would require $600 upfront for rent (since I had found a sub-leaser and wouldn't be paying rent because I would be living with my brother) and a $2/hr raise.
My boss simply nodded and then wrote down what I'd said without any indication of suprise, anger, or disappointment. She then told me she would have to talk to the owners to see what they could do.
That was almost two weeks ago. Yesterday, she called me into the office and told me that I would be greatly missed and that she was sorry, but she just couldn't match what the ice-cream factory would offer me. She then said that she understood me leaving "if it was due to the financial stuff." If it was due to the financial stuff? That struck me as very odd. As if it would not be okay if I left because I was just tired of the job or wanted something else? This brings me to the side note that one fellow co-worker had recently quit because she didn't enjoy the job too much. After this person gave their two weeks notice, this same boss hardly spoke a word to her from that point forward. She didn't thank her for over one and half years of service or wish her luck with her new job (which was at a bank) or with her college endeavors.
I feel kind of bad seeing how drastically different this co-worker and I are being treated as our pawn shop careers come to a close, but I suppose I shouldn't be too sad about it. I mean, I'm looking forward to some smooth sailing from here until May 19th.
What a great and dreadful day that will be! Great because of not having to deal with stupid customers, but dreadful because I will no longer have access a constant flow of merchandise at a discounted employee rate. It will also be great because I will no longer have to see many of our regular smelly, financially irresponsible, annoying, rude, loud customers and pretend that I don't regard them with varying degrees of contempt, but it will also be dreadful because those customers were often highly entertaining. But another reason May 19th could be a dreadful day is because of the gamble I am taking on this new job.
A gamble? Yes. A gamble. I would have you know that my employment at the ice-cream factory is not concrete in the slightest. I have sent in an online application, but I have yet to hear back from the company. My brother (who has previously worked for said ice-cream factory) informed me of a "career fair" which they will be hosting--which he says is pretty much a big one day hiring spree--on May 24th. That is why I put in my last day as May 19th. Quitting on the 19th will provide me with adequate time to move in with my brother and then be in town for the "career fair" at which I fully expect--and pray-- that I will be hired. My brother said they hire tons of people because a lot of them will end up quitting within a couple weeks. Here's hoping my decision to leave my current job and move across the state in hopes of obtaining a higher paying one pays off. This may be the best or worst decision I have made in a very, very long time.
29 April 2011
27 April 2011
Quote Vote
I will admit that even though I work in a pawn shop, that I spend the majority of my time away from the pawn counter. I mostly fulfill other duties. But when the pawn counter is busy (which is very, very often), I mosey on over to help by A) offering miniature bottles of water to those who are waiting, and/or B) asking if anyone was wanting to either pay the current interest on their pawn loan or redeem their pawn loan, and/or C) helping the pawn brokers by either completing simple pawn transactions or helping them test items (we test everything before buying or taking it in for a loan).
It was during one of these busy periods, after I had mosied on over, and I was helping test a PlayStation 3 when today's most stellar experience occurred. I was minding my own business, making sure the game system was in proper working order, but I couldn't help but overhear two women having a conversation.
They were both very loud, but the one who did most of the talking was especially loud. She said some priceless things, and I am not sure which one is my favorite. Thus, I am opening this up for your consideration.
QUOTE 1 :
"Your blackness coming off. That's your blackness coming off! Look at you! You're getting it all over the place!"
QUOTE 2 :
"We was all hanging out and (insert name here) dropped four or five strips of acid. She was freaking out real bad, too. Then she tried to get us to take some, and we were like 'No! We're only fourteen!'."
So, as I don't have any official poll for you to take (I'm not that high tech, I'm sorry), just leave your vote below in the comment section. You can also feel free to explain why you like it more than the other. Or, instead of telling us why you like your quote more, you can share some embarrassing medical fact about yourself. You know. Whatever.
It was during one of these busy periods, after I had mosied on over, and I was helping test a PlayStation 3 when today's most stellar experience occurred. I was minding my own business, making sure the game system was in proper working order, but I couldn't help but overhear two women having a conversation.
They were both very loud, but the one who did most of the talking was especially loud. She said some priceless things, and I am not sure which one is my favorite. Thus, I am opening this up for your consideration.
QUOTE 1 :
"Your blackness coming off. That's your blackness coming off! Look at you! You're getting it all over the place!"
QUOTE 2 :
"We was all hanging out and (insert name here) dropped four or five strips of acid. She was freaking out real bad, too. Then she tried to get us to take some, and we were like 'No! We're only fourteen!'."
So, as I don't have any official poll for you to take (I'm not that high tech, I'm sorry), just leave your vote below in the comment section. You can also feel free to explain why you like it more than the other. Or, instead of telling us why you like your quote more, you can share some embarrassing medical fact about yourself. You know. Whatever.
25 April 2011
The Other Me
Today a new worker started at the pawn shop. And, as it turns out, he and I share the same first name (he shall hereafter be referred to as The Other Me). To be honest, I'm not too thrilled about this name sharing--mostly because it will lead to confusion when someone says our name and we aren't sure which one they are addressing, but also because I don't like sharing my name. It feels weird to me. I actually haven't met many people who share my name that I've liked very much, partially because I find sharing my name to be annoying. Immature? Yeah. But it's true.
Anyway, when I heard that The Other Me would be starting, I cracked several jokes about being confrontational and telling him things like "This pawn shop here isn't big enough for the two of us" or "Just so we can keep things straight, you'll be known as The Worthless _____ and I'll be known as The Worthwhile ______". I even went so far as to say I should ignore him and then growl and try to bite him when he tried to talk to me. I really don't feel any hostility towards The Other Me. My sense of humor is just aggressive and cruel.
When The Other Me finally did start around noon, I was actually paired with him to show him how to put away new pawn loans and such. He did a pretty good job and was polite enough, but one thing I noticed about him was how heavily he breathed all the time. He also made a lot of grunting and sighing noises during ordinary activities which do not usually warrant making such noises. It may be because he is a larger guy--he's not about to break any world records, but he must have about 150 pounds on me (who weighs in at 185 on a fat day).
I actually kind of felt bad for The Other Me because we were super busy today. We actually broke a record for most pawn transactions in a single day. Between new loans and purchases, we had a whopping total of 129 transactions. An ordinary day involves about half of that amount of transactions. Imagine the chaos. But The Other Me kept up fairly well. I mean, he wasn't phenomenal, but it was his first day and, all things considered, he did just fine. I will admit that there were moments when I became frustrated because I had to move at a much slower pace so I could train him, but we survived.
At one point, I asked my boss if this was her way of replacing me (see Changes Are Coming). She laughed and denied it, and I believe her, but I wasn't about to let the joke drop. I told The Other Me that he would have some large shoes to fill and that it wasn't likely he would be able to do it.
I really hope he knows I was only joking. But, if not . . . eh.
Anyway, when I heard that The Other Me would be starting, I cracked several jokes about being confrontational and telling him things like "This pawn shop here isn't big enough for the two of us" or "Just so we can keep things straight, you'll be known as The Worthless _____ and I'll be known as The Worthwhile ______". I even went so far as to say I should ignore him and then growl and try to bite him when he tried to talk to me. I really don't feel any hostility towards The Other Me. My sense of humor is just aggressive and cruel.
When The Other Me finally did start around noon, I was actually paired with him to show him how to put away new pawn loans and such. He did a pretty good job and was polite enough, but one thing I noticed about him was how heavily he breathed all the time. He also made a lot of grunting and sighing noises during ordinary activities which do not usually warrant making such noises. It may be because he is a larger guy--he's not about to break any world records, but he must have about 150 pounds on me (who weighs in at 185 on a fat day).
I actually kind of felt bad for The Other Me because we were super busy today. We actually broke a record for most pawn transactions in a single day. Between new loans and purchases, we had a whopping total of 129 transactions. An ordinary day involves about half of that amount of transactions. Imagine the chaos. But The Other Me kept up fairly well. I mean, he wasn't phenomenal, but it was his first day and, all things considered, he did just fine. I will admit that there were moments when I became frustrated because I had to move at a much slower pace so I could train him, but we survived.
At one point, I asked my boss if this was her way of replacing me (see Changes Are Coming). She laughed and denied it, and I believe her, but I wasn't about to let the joke drop. I told The Other Me that he would have some large shoes to fill and that it wasn't likely he would be able to do it.
I really hope he knows I was only joking. But, if not . . . eh.
24 April 2011
Chester
There is a very regular customer who comes into the pawn shop. And for reasons which can only be described as silly and immature, the pawn brokers have nicknamed this certain man "Chester". His actual name is not Chester, nor is it an alteration of his actual name (no worries, we remain completely confidential here at My Worthless Degree).
Anyway, Chester has come into the pawn shop three or four times a week for the past several months, and 99% of the time, he is selling a large quantity of DVDs which appear to be brand new. The cases are slick and shiny and the discs are scratchless. Another oddity which calls his honest into question is the fact that the titles he brings in often repeat themselves. He will bring in many of the same DVDs several days, or even weeks, in a row (one of the worst would be a Robert Pattinson movie called How To Be).
There are two stories about encounters with Chester that I would like to share, both of which involves his DVDs.
Story #1 :
After a number of months, I decided it would be entertaining to see how Chester would respond if he were to be put on the spot and asked where he got all of his DVDs. It seemed very obvious that he was stealing them from somewhere, but we can't go accusing people of theft. I know that it was over the line, prying into the origins of these DVDs, but I couldn't help it. Curiosity and cruelty got the better of me. So, one day, while I looking through the plethora of DVD cases he brought in (to make sure all of the DVDs where in them), I did my best to mask my question with innocence. And how did "Chester" respond?
"Garage sales, man."
Garage sales?
"Yeah, you just go late in the afternoon and they're willing to give them to you dirt cheap because they just want to get rid of everything."
Really?
"Yeah. You gotta' go sometime. Garage sales. I'm telling you, man."
Did he really think that made any sense whatsoever? So, let me get this straight. The city where we live is overrun with incessant garage sales, all of which are selling DVDs which appear to be in new condition, many of which are selling the same titles? What a filthy liar. I asked him where these garages sales were and he answered that they were around and I just had to watch out for them.
When I told my fellow employees about this supposed source of Chester's DVDs, we all had a good laugh.
Story #2 :
Another day, Chester came into the pawn shop, and I decided to test him. I asked him when he was going to bring in Inception for me (it had just come out on DVD). Chester appeared to have been struck by lightening. His spine snapped straight and he shook his head and promised to look out for it for me at the garage sales.
My manager was not happy.
But, sure enough, not even a week later, Chester came in with a copy of Inception. The funny thing was that he tried to hand it off to one of my co-workers. Apparently, he had forgotten who had asked him for it. The funny thing about this is that I'm a pasty Caucasian and the employee Chester was trying to give the movie to was Thai. How he could confuse us, I will never know.
Conclusion :
Over the months, my curiosity over where Chester obtains his DVDs has grown into a mild obsession. I've fantasized about following Chester around for a day or two so I could see how and where he gets so many new DVDs. Was this his full-time "job"? What other shady habits did he have? Furthermore, how involved in this were his two sons?
Yes, Chester has two sons, and I imagine he often calls his children into the living room for a "family night" of removing the plastic wrapping and stickers from his hundreds of stolen DVDs so they will appear to have been used when he sells them. I imagine his children groaning in protest and then sluggishly jabbing dull steak knives through the wrapping. Do they know that their father is a clepto? How desensitized have they been by their father's endless theft?
If only I could give into my urges and follow him around, I could learn so much. It would be fascinating. And probably really sad.
Anyway, Chester has come into the pawn shop three or four times a week for the past several months, and 99% of the time, he is selling a large quantity of DVDs which appear to be brand new. The cases are slick and shiny and the discs are scratchless. Another oddity which calls his honest into question is the fact that the titles he brings in often repeat themselves. He will bring in many of the same DVDs several days, or even weeks, in a row (one of the worst would be a Robert Pattinson movie called How To Be).
There are two stories about encounters with Chester that I would like to share, both of which involves his DVDs.
Story #1 :
After a number of months, I decided it would be entertaining to see how Chester would respond if he were to be put on the spot and asked where he got all of his DVDs. It seemed very obvious that he was stealing them from somewhere, but we can't go accusing people of theft. I know that it was over the line, prying into the origins of these DVDs, but I couldn't help it. Curiosity and cruelty got the better of me. So, one day, while I looking through the plethora of DVD cases he brought in (to make sure all of the DVDs where in them), I did my best to mask my question with innocence. And how did "Chester" respond?
"Garage sales, man."
Garage sales?
"Yeah, you just go late in the afternoon and they're willing to give them to you dirt cheap because they just want to get rid of everything."
Really?
"Yeah. You gotta' go sometime. Garage sales. I'm telling you, man."
Did he really think that made any sense whatsoever? So, let me get this straight. The city where we live is overrun with incessant garage sales, all of which are selling DVDs which appear to be in new condition, many of which are selling the same titles? What a filthy liar. I asked him where these garages sales were and he answered that they were around and I just had to watch out for them.
When I told my fellow employees about this supposed source of Chester's DVDs, we all had a good laugh.
Story #2 :
Another day, Chester came into the pawn shop, and I decided to test him. I asked him when he was going to bring in Inception for me (it had just come out on DVD). Chester appeared to have been struck by lightening. His spine snapped straight and he shook his head and promised to look out for it for me at the garage sales.
My manager was not happy.
But, sure enough, not even a week later, Chester came in with a copy of Inception. The funny thing was that he tried to hand it off to one of my co-workers. Apparently, he had forgotten who had asked him for it. The funny thing about this is that I'm a pasty Caucasian and the employee Chester was trying to give the movie to was Thai. How he could confuse us, I will never know.
Conclusion :
Over the months, my curiosity over where Chester obtains his DVDs has grown into a mild obsession. I've fantasized about following Chester around for a day or two so I could see how and where he gets so many new DVDs. Was this his full-time "job"? What other shady habits did he have? Furthermore, how involved in this were his two sons?
Yes, Chester has two sons, and I imagine he often calls his children into the living room for a "family night" of removing the plastic wrapping and stickers from his hundreds of stolen DVDs so they will appear to have been used when he sells them. I imagine his children groaning in protest and then sluggishly jabbing dull steak knives through the wrapping. Do they know that their father is a clepto? How desensitized have they been by their father's endless theft?
If only I could give into my urges and follow him around, I could learn so much. It would be fascinating. And probably really sad.
20 April 2011
Diabetic or Druggie?
Today I was approached by a customer who had the sole purpose of informing me that there was a syringe in one of the oversized flower pots outside we have outside of the store. "A syringe," I asked. "A syringe. Like a hypodermic needle. It's in your flower pot." His voice shook as he said this and he spoke quickly and nervously. He seemed to be pretty upset by his discovery.
Anyway, I thanked the man for telling me about the needle, but I didn't so thank him for taking his time to help prevent someone from contracting a disease from the needle if they should have the misfortune of touching it. No. I am not so noble. I thanked him for providing me with yet another unforgettable pawn shop experience.
I told my manager about the syringe in the flower pot and he suggested I put on some rubber gloves before touching it. Shaking my head in scorn, I responded that he was a wuss and that I would be picking up the syringe with my mouth. Of course, I was only joking, but then I discovered that didn't have any rubber gloves and had to settle for a folded paper towel.
Once outside, I worked my way down the row of flower pots we have lined up against the building. They're all filled with dirt but the dirt is plantless since it's not warm enough for anything to grow yet. Maybe the naked dirt looks too vulnerable or maybe people genuinely mistake the flower pots for trash cans, either way, people are constantly throwing trash into the flower pots, and today was no exception. I picked out cigarette butts, chewed gum wads, receipts, and then I finally made it to the final flower pot where it--the syringe--lay.
I was surprised to find it sitting in the center of one of those drink carriers that you get in fast food drive-throughs, but I was even more surprised to see that it had been capped with this tiny piece of orange plastic which must have been made for the sole purpose of concealing the needle. And next to the drink holder and syringe was a crumpled McDonald's bag and cup.
It seems to me that some diabetic individual had stopped outside of our pawn shop to eat their unhealthy, discount food at which time they tested their blood sugar levels, innocently injected themselves with insulin, and then neglected to eat dispose of their trash or medical devices. But why would anyone choose to eat outside of a pawn shop in weather that has been unseasonably cold? It could also be that the syringe was discarded into the flower pot after the McDonald's trash had been thrown in. Even so, I can't imagine a drug addict politely capping their needle after shooting up. Of course, I like to imagine the more dramatic of the two scenarios. If only I had found a burnt spoon in the near vicinity of the needle.
The world may never know what happened outside of the pawn shop, but it sure can speculate.
Anyway, I thanked the man for telling me about the needle, but I didn't so thank him for taking his time to help prevent someone from contracting a disease from the needle if they should have the misfortune of touching it. No. I am not so noble. I thanked him for providing me with yet another unforgettable pawn shop experience.
I told my manager about the syringe in the flower pot and he suggested I put on some rubber gloves before touching it. Shaking my head in scorn, I responded that he was a wuss and that I would be picking up the syringe with my mouth. Of course, I was only joking, but then I discovered that didn't have any rubber gloves and had to settle for a folded paper towel.
Once outside, I worked my way down the row of flower pots we have lined up against the building. They're all filled with dirt but the dirt is plantless since it's not warm enough for anything to grow yet. Maybe the naked dirt looks too vulnerable or maybe people genuinely mistake the flower pots for trash cans, either way, people are constantly throwing trash into the flower pots, and today was no exception. I picked out cigarette butts, chewed gum wads, receipts, and then I finally made it to the final flower pot where it--the syringe--lay.
I was surprised to find it sitting in the center of one of those drink carriers that you get in fast food drive-throughs, but I was even more surprised to see that it had been capped with this tiny piece of orange plastic which must have been made for the sole purpose of concealing the needle. And next to the drink holder and syringe was a crumpled McDonald's bag and cup.
It seems to me that some diabetic individual had stopped outside of our pawn shop to eat their unhealthy, discount food at which time they tested their blood sugar levels, innocently injected themselves with insulin, and then neglected to eat dispose of their trash or medical devices. But why would anyone choose to eat outside of a pawn shop in weather that has been unseasonably cold? It could also be that the syringe was discarded into the flower pot after the McDonald's trash had been thrown in. Even so, I can't imagine a drug addict politely capping their needle after shooting up. Of course, I like to imagine the more dramatic of the two scenarios. If only I had found a burnt spoon in the near vicinity of the needle.
The world may never know what happened outside of the pawn shop, but it sure can speculate.
18 April 2011
Changes Are Coming
Lately, I have been entertaining a thought--a thought of quitting my job at the pawn shop and working in an ice-cream factory over the summer. There are both pros and cons to this. While it would would enable me to 1) earn a lot of money because I would be starting at over $10 an hour and working 60 or more hours a week, and 2) live closer to some of my family, it would also A) destroy my fun summer plans, and B) separate me from my friends whom I will miss dearly sooner than I had anticipated.
As I was weighing my options, I divulged all of these details to my employers, nonchalantly emphasizing the fact that I would be leaving the pawn shop for higher pay. I hoped doing so would have inspired them to approach me later on and offer me a raise to stay for the summer (as we are so desperately understaffed). No such thing happened. The closest reality came to matching my secret desires was when each of the managers I spoke to about this ask me what the starting pay would be at this other job. When I responded that it would be over $10 an hour, they each nodded solemnly and said nothing more, probably because they realized there was no way that could match such phenomenal wages. One manager agreed that this would be a far superior opportunity for me while the other offered me to more hours (which I found offensive as I am already working over 50 hours a week). I don't want more hours, dang it! I want money! Keep your job! Sheesh!
These conversations occurred a few weeks ago, and I have since found a sub-leaser for my current apartment. That was one key element which was holding me back. If I get this other job, I will be able to save over $600 on rent as my brother has graciously offered me a free place to stay for the summer months. And to add to the greatness of this decision, it turns out that employees of this ice-cream factory are allowed to eat as much ice-cream as they please during breaks! Oh, what a glorious benefit! I was on the fence about this job until I heard about the free ice-cream. That was enticement enough for me. I plan to keep tabs of everything I eat and then figure out how much it all cost. This company is going to lose so much money because of this ice-cream-aholic. Those fools!
Today, I informed the head store manager that I was going to be leaving the pawn shop for this other job. I don't have an exact date since I only applied to this job online last night, but I suspect I won't be there longer than another month. She was not thrilled in the slightest. There have been a staggering number of interviews lately, but nothing much has come of them. And to make things worse, they will be losing a number of employees this summer as they also move away to start different phases of their lives.
I think this is going to be a good choice for me. I am excited to see more of my family and I've always wanted to work in a factory just to see what it would be like to do such mindless work. Plus, I think seeing how things are made is fascinating--especially seeing how ice-cream things are made. I just hope that I get hired. I was told that they hire like crazy for the summer and work their temporary help to the bone. I'm down. To be honest, my only true hesitation is that this new job might not give me many things to blog about. The pawn shop has provided a wealth of stories to tell, but a factory? We shall see. We shall see.
As I was weighing my options, I divulged all of these details to my employers, nonchalantly emphasizing the fact that I would be leaving the pawn shop for higher pay. I hoped doing so would have inspired them to approach me later on and offer me a raise to stay for the summer (as we are so desperately understaffed). No such thing happened. The closest reality came to matching my secret desires was when each of the managers I spoke to about this ask me what the starting pay would be at this other job. When I responded that it would be over $10 an hour, they each nodded solemnly and said nothing more, probably because they realized there was no way that could match such phenomenal wages. One manager agreed that this would be a far superior opportunity for me while the other offered me to more hours (which I found offensive as I am already working over 50 hours a week). I don't want more hours, dang it! I want money! Keep your job! Sheesh!
These conversations occurred a few weeks ago, and I have since found a sub-leaser for my current apartment. That was one key element which was holding me back. If I get this other job, I will be able to save over $600 on rent as my brother has graciously offered me a free place to stay for the summer months. And to add to the greatness of this decision, it turns out that employees of this ice-cream factory are allowed to eat as much ice-cream as they please during breaks! Oh, what a glorious benefit! I was on the fence about this job until I heard about the free ice-cream. That was enticement enough for me. I plan to keep tabs of everything I eat and then figure out how much it all cost. This company is going to lose so much money because of this ice-cream-aholic. Those fools!
Today, I informed the head store manager that I was going to be leaving the pawn shop for this other job. I don't have an exact date since I only applied to this job online last night, but I suspect I won't be there longer than another month. She was not thrilled in the slightest. There have been a staggering number of interviews lately, but nothing much has come of them. And to make things worse, they will be losing a number of employees this summer as they also move away to start different phases of their lives.
I think this is going to be a good choice for me. I am excited to see more of my family and I've always wanted to work in a factory just to see what it would be like to do such mindless work. Plus, I think seeing how things are made is fascinating--especially seeing how ice-cream things are made. I just hope that I get hired. I was told that they hire like crazy for the summer and work their temporary help to the bone. I'm down. To be honest, my only true hesitation is that this new job might not give me many things to blog about. The pawn shop has provided a wealth of stories to tell, but a factory? We shall see. We shall see.
15 April 2011
WET FLOOR
Oh, the unexpected pleasures of working in a pawn shop. There really is no telling what the hell is going to happen, and today is undeniable proof of that. Today, while I was busily working hard for my humble wages in the back area, a co-worker of mine asked me where the WET FLOOR sign was located. I responded that I wasn't sure. Unprovoked, this co-worker informed me why the sign was needed. A customer had cut himself on our of our swords and had bled on the floor.
I couldn't believe what I'd just heard--mostly because all of the swords I'd come in contact with at the pawn shop hadn't been what you'd consider sharp in the slightest. I am not exaggerating when I say that a butter knife would be sharper than most of these things. This in mind, I asked how badly this customer had cut himself (imagining a scratch which would be easily remedied with a band-aid). Consider my surprise when I was informed that he had cut himself badly enough that there was a pool of blood on the floor and that there were also bloody footprints leading away from it.
I was so excited that I would have knocked over my co-worker to rush to the scene of the mayhem to take it all in before it had been cleaned up if guilt hadn't quickly set in and quieted my morbid excitement. How unprofessional, how immature, and, most importantly, how insensitive it would be for me to make an appearance on the showroom floor for the sole purpose of gawking. So, to make it appear as if I had more noble intentions, I offered to find the WET FLOOR sign for my co-worker. This took all of two seconds to find and then I was free to hide my shameful interest by pretending to be nothing more than a helpful employee.
When I went out to the floor, I found the customer in the sword section with a mop in one hand and a bloody paper towel wrapped around the other. The size of the pool of blood on the floor was impressive. It must have measured no less than two feet by one foot. And the strangest thing about it all was that the customer insisted on cleaning up his own blood. He awkwardly pushed and dragged the mop over his blood until it had almost been smeared into nothingness. I set the WET FLOOR sign up in front of the blood patch and silently wished he would stop touching our mop and getting blood on it.
In all honesty, I wasn't surprised to see which customer had cut himself. He was one of our regulars, and a fairly strange and rude one at that. A while ago, he had come into the store to sell some items but was unimpressed by the offer we gave him. Rejecting our offer, he responded by asking "Do I look gay?" and then informing us that he didn't "want to get f&#%ed up the a$$!" before grabbing up his items of our counter and storming out. Then, the other day, I saw him preparing for battle with one of our swords. He was swinging it around his head and out in front of him and jabbing it through the air and tilting it from side to side with no sign of self-consciousness for being so silly while in a public place. Then, earlier today, before he had cut himself, he played a bass guitar very loudly and very poorly for a very long time. Thus, all of my encounters with this kid were memorable in the most unfortunate ways.
After the young man had finished his attempt at one-handedly mopping up his own blood (there were streaks of red everywhere), I carefully took the mop from him. As I had predicted, there were smears of blood on the mop handle and I carried it very carefully to the back room. The floor wasn't totally clean and I knew that we needed to mop it a second time, but I didn't think rinsing out the mop head was a good idea since it would get his blood in our mop bucket. After speaking to the head manager of the store (for whom I felt so badly because she was beside herself with worry about lawsuits, medical bills, future incidents, etc), we decided to throw the mop head away. I promptly put it in a plastic bag, taking great pains to make sure that none of the dangly threads of the mop head touched anything, and disposed of it.
The bleeding customer was then brought through the back (which I'm sure he found exciting since it was extremely cluttered with all kinds of wonderful things) into the employee bathroom where he washed off his wound and redressed it.
Apparently, the customer was very calm and indifferent throughout the entire ordeal. He said it was no big deal and he insisted that he didn't need to go to the hospital to see if he needed stitches. I would have initially thought he was trying to save face, but I seriously think he was that strange. There is no shame in going to the hospital for stitches (for which the pawn shop would have gladly paid), that is, unless you are a psycho! This customer even roamed around the store for another half hour browsing as if nothing had happened, his wounded hand clenched the entire time. No, he gave no indication that anything out of the ordinary had happened. He just kept on keeping on, listening to his blaring screamo music in his headphones as we cleaned and sanitized with great, great care.
I couldn't believe what I'd just heard--mostly because all of the swords I'd come in contact with at the pawn shop hadn't been what you'd consider sharp in the slightest. I am not exaggerating when I say that a butter knife would be sharper than most of these things. This in mind, I asked how badly this customer had cut himself (imagining a scratch which would be easily remedied with a band-aid). Consider my surprise when I was informed that he had cut himself badly enough that there was a pool of blood on the floor and that there were also bloody footprints leading away from it.
I was so excited that I would have knocked over my co-worker to rush to the scene of the mayhem to take it all in before it had been cleaned up if guilt hadn't quickly set in and quieted my morbid excitement. How unprofessional, how immature, and, most importantly, how insensitive it would be for me to make an appearance on the showroom floor for the sole purpose of gawking. So, to make it appear as if I had more noble intentions, I offered to find the WET FLOOR sign for my co-worker. This took all of two seconds to find and then I was free to hide my shameful interest by pretending to be nothing more than a helpful employee.
When I went out to the floor, I found the customer in the sword section with a mop in one hand and a bloody paper towel wrapped around the other. The size of the pool of blood on the floor was impressive. It must have measured no less than two feet by one foot. And the strangest thing about it all was that the customer insisted on cleaning up his own blood. He awkwardly pushed and dragged the mop over his blood until it had almost been smeared into nothingness. I set the WET FLOOR sign up in front of the blood patch and silently wished he would stop touching our mop and getting blood on it.
In all honesty, I wasn't surprised to see which customer had cut himself. He was one of our regulars, and a fairly strange and rude one at that. A while ago, he had come into the store to sell some items but was unimpressed by the offer we gave him. Rejecting our offer, he responded by asking "Do I look gay?" and then informing us that he didn't "want to get f&#%ed up the a$$!" before grabbing up his items of our counter and storming out. Then, the other day, I saw him preparing for battle with one of our swords. He was swinging it around his head and out in front of him and jabbing it through the air and tilting it from side to side with no sign of self-consciousness for being so silly while in a public place. Then, earlier today, before he had cut himself, he played a bass guitar very loudly and very poorly for a very long time. Thus, all of my encounters with this kid were memorable in the most unfortunate ways.
After the young man had finished his attempt at one-handedly mopping up his own blood (there were streaks of red everywhere), I carefully took the mop from him. As I had predicted, there were smears of blood on the mop handle and I carried it very carefully to the back room. The floor wasn't totally clean and I knew that we needed to mop it a second time, but I didn't think rinsing out the mop head was a good idea since it would get his blood in our mop bucket. After speaking to the head manager of the store (for whom I felt so badly because she was beside herself with worry about lawsuits, medical bills, future incidents, etc), we decided to throw the mop head away. I promptly put it in a plastic bag, taking great pains to make sure that none of the dangly threads of the mop head touched anything, and disposed of it.
The bleeding customer was then brought through the back (which I'm sure he found exciting since it was extremely cluttered with all kinds of wonderful things) into the employee bathroom where he washed off his wound and redressed it.
Apparently, the customer was very calm and indifferent throughout the entire ordeal. He said it was no big deal and he insisted that he didn't need to go to the hospital to see if he needed stitches. I would have initially thought he was trying to save face, but I seriously think he was that strange. There is no shame in going to the hospital for stitches (for which the pawn shop would have gladly paid), that is, unless you are a psycho! This customer even roamed around the store for another half hour browsing as if nothing had happened, his wounded hand clenched the entire time. No, he gave no indication that anything out of the ordinary had happened. He just kept on keeping on, listening to his blaring screamo music in his headphones as we cleaned and sanitized with great, great care.
12 April 2011
Why, Hello There, Lockjaw!
Today was a busy day of rearranging several displays on the showroom floor. At one point, a man bought a large tool chest and we replaced it with a plastic truck box that had defaulted (defaulted meaning he had gotten a loan on it and hadn't paid on it so we took it from him for breaching his contract). But before we could put the box out for sale, we had to empty it out.
At first, I couldn't figure out how to open the stupid thing. It was the kind that's long and low and has a flap on each end (like the one pictured to the left). At first, I thought it was locked. It seemed like a reasonable conclusion as there was a lock on each door and they wouldn't open. But when I asked where the key was, no one knew. After a bout of half-hearted searching, I decided to try and open the box one more time --and succeeded! No, it was not locked, and, no, there was no key. Oh, well.
Anyway, once I got the stupid box open, I discovered that the previous owner must have been a painter or handyman of sorts. It was filled--literally FILLED--with all kinds of fun and/or rusty tools. See below for a brief list of some of the crap that was left behind to rot:
- 1 package of rusted razor blades
- 3 broken box cutters
- 4 or 5 small tool belts
- Dozens of screws
- Handfuls of nails that were more rust than metal
- 1 blowtorch
- 4 pieces of rusted rebar, one of which had several nails sticking through one end of it (which made it look like some sort of brutal weapon pulled from a Mad Max film)
- 2 circular saw blades
- 1 end of a broom
- 25-or-so sockets (not for walls, but for ratchets)
- 1 sprayer head for a garden hose
- 1 mostly used bottle of wood glue
- 1 nasty fabric glove which was stiff and crusty for reasons I'm sure God wishes He could repress
- 1 rag (which was as equally crusty and stiff as the fabric glove)
- 1 severely dented can of OFF bug spray
- 1 link of nails intended for a nail gun (which I pretended was jewelry by wrapping around my wrist and up my forearm)
As I began to whittle down the contents of this truck box, all of the rusted nails and screws fell to the bottom. Eventually, they were all that was left remaining in the box and I was left with the final task of removing them. I started to pick them out with my hands, but then I realized something . . . I'm not current on my tetanus shot. Why, hello there, lockjaw!
I informed my manager (who was doing something nearby) about my deficient shot status and she laughed. I told her I was serious. And she laughed again. Then I told her a third time and it finally sank in that I wasn't joking. She then eagerly helped me brainstorm for alternative ways of removing the deadly rust spears.
She first suggested I put on a pair of the rubber gloves we had in the bathroom. "The kind of rubber gloves which are easily punctured?" I asked. She then suggested I turn the box upside down, shake out the items, and then sweep it up. I shot that down because 1) it would have been very awkward doing that with such a large item, 2) it would have made a huge mess, and 3) there was a lip on the inside of the box which would have made dumping it out very difficult. Finally, we settled on using magnets and a shop vac. It worked like a charm, but not before I felt a prick in the pad of one of my fingers.
I'm sure I'll be fine, but, if not, please sue for me. Sue them good.
Anyway, once I got the stupid box open, I discovered that the previous owner must have been a painter or handyman of sorts. It was filled--literally FILLED--with all kinds of fun and/or rusty tools. See below for a brief list of some of the crap that was left behind to rot:
- 1 package of rusted razor blades
- 3 broken box cutters
- 4 or 5 small tool belts
- Dozens of screws
- Handfuls of nails that were more rust than metal
- 1 blowtorch
- 4 pieces of rusted rebar, one of which had several nails sticking through one end of it (which made it look like some sort of brutal weapon pulled from a Mad Max film)
- 2 circular saw blades
- 1 end of a broom
- 25-or-so sockets (not for walls, but for ratchets)
- 1 sprayer head for a garden hose
- 1 mostly used bottle of wood glue
- 1 nasty fabric glove which was stiff and crusty for reasons I'm sure God wishes He could repress
- 1 rag (which was as equally crusty and stiff as the fabric glove)
- 1 severely dented can of OFF bug spray
- 1 link of nails intended for a nail gun (which I pretended was jewelry by wrapping around my wrist and up my forearm)
As I began to whittle down the contents of this truck box, all of the rusted nails and screws fell to the bottom. Eventually, they were all that was left remaining in the box and I was left with the final task of removing them. I started to pick them out with my hands, but then I realized something . . . I'm not current on my tetanus shot. Why, hello there, lockjaw!
I informed my manager (who was doing something nearby) about my deficient shot status and she laughed. I told her I was serious. And she laughed again. Then I told her a third time and it finally sank in that I wasn't joking. She then eagerly helped me brainstorm for alternative ways of removing the deadly rust spears.
She first suggested I put on a pair of the rubber gloves we had in the bathroom. "The kind of rubber gloves which are easily punctured?" I asked. She then suggested I turn the box upside down, shake out the items, and then sweep it up. I shot that down because 1) it would have been very awkward doing that with such a large item, 2) it would have made a huge mess, and 3) there was a lip on the inside of the box which would have made dumping it out very difficult. Finally, we settled on using magnets and a shop vac. It worked like a charm, but not before I felt a prick in the pad of one of my fingers.
I'm sure I'll be fine, but, if not, please sue for me. Sue them good.
11 April 2011
Power-what?!
Today, during my loan walking duties (see Loan Walking) I came across a shocking loan. The paper I use for loan walking is a list of the previous day's loans, and all of the information is splayed out neatly for me to double check for accuracy in description and placement in the warehouse.
The specific loan to which I am referring stated that the item was a digital camera, but more specifically it declared the model--a Canon Powershit SX130 IS.
I laughed outloud and jokingly considred the possibility that the pawn broker who entered the loan into the system wasn't too keen on Canon digital cameras. I'm certain this was an honest mistake and not an intended pun--since the "I" is right next to the "O"--but I like to think that it was a sly trick. I haven't talked to the pawn broken about the description in question, but I did leave a note for him that he needed to go into the computer system to change that vowel as it makes such a difference.
Why change it, you may ask? Well, when a customer returns to either pay the accrued interest or to redeem their item(s), they will receive either a receipt or new loan contract which plainly displays the enter description of the items in their loan. Thus, they will see that we have labeled their expensive camera as a "Powershit" and possibly be offended. When I brought this up to a manager--telling him because I knew he would find it hilarious--he reminded me that the customer already had a contract with the inaccurate spelling on it! I really, really, really hope they actually paid attention to the contract we gave them and they discovered the mistake!
SIDE NOTE #1 : I love finding naughty words in unexpected places. I am so happy this has happened again in a new and exciting way (see All Aboard The Ass Train and "Missing One Ass").
SIDE NOTE #2 : Another funny image is what an actual "Powershit" would look like. I imagine someone squatted over a toilet and their feces shooting out as if they had been fired out of a nail gun. If you have other images, please share.
The specific loan to which I am referring stated that the item was a digital camera, but more specifically it declared the model--a Canon Powershit SX130 IS.
I laughed outloud and jokingly considred the possibility that the pawn broker who entered the loan into the system wasn't too keen on Canon digital cameras. I'm certain this was an honest mistake and not an intended pun--since the "I" is right next to the "O"--but I like to think that it was a sly trick. I haven't talked to the pawn broken about the description in question, but I did leave a note for him that he needed to go into the computer system to change that vowel as it makes such a difference.
Why change it, you may ask? Well, when a customer returns to either pay the accrued interest or to redeem their item(s), they will receive either a receipt or new loan contract which plainly displays the enter description of the items in their loan. Thus, they will see that we have labeled their expensive camera as a "Powershit" and possibly be offended. When I brought this up to a manager--telling him because I knew he would find it hilarious--he reminded me that the customer already had a contract with the inaccurate spelling on it! I really, really, really hope they actually paid attention to the contract we gave them and they discovered the mistake!
SIDE NOTE #1 : I love finding naughty words in unexpected places. I am so happy this has happened again in a new and exciting way (see All Aboard The Ass Train and "Missing One Ass").
SIDE NOTE #2 : Another funny image is what an actual "Powershit" would look like. I imagine someone squatted over a toilet and their feces shooting out as if they had been fired out of a nail gun. If you have other images, please share.
09 April 2011
"Is That With A Capital 'P'?"
One of the more popular items to bring into the pawn shop for a pawn loan are laptops. I would say that at any given time that we have between 40 to 70 laptops (if not more) sitting on the shelves of our warehouse, just waiting for their owners to pay their ransoms and take them home.
Bringing in a laptop is a somewhat lengthy process. I won't bore you with the multitude of fine procedural details, but trust me when I say that when a laptop is set on the counter that it causes many a pawn brokers' hearts to sink due to the complicated steps which must then be taken.
One of the steps of entering a laptop loan into the computer requires getting the password for the system (if it has one). The other day, My Twin (see My Twin) was in the middle of completing a pawn loan when it came to the point when he needed to get the password from the customer. He politely asked the customer for his password and received the reply "I love pussy, too!"
A little taken back, My Twin struggled to not laugh in the man's face. Instead, he focused on entering the password into the computer. He tried "ilovepussy2" and "ilovepussytoo" and "iluvpussy2" but these variations of what the man told him weren't granting him access. He then asked the customer "Are there any capital letters? Is that with a capital 'P' or something?"
The customer looked at him in confusion and My Twin repeated himself. The customer then asked what he was talking about. My Twin began to explain that the password wasn't working but was interrupted by the customer--"Password? Oh! It's 'jj'."
It really makes you wonder what the customer thought My Twin asked when he responded "I love pussy, too." Sadly, there was no way he could have asked him without breaching some serious employee/customer boundaries.
Bringing in a laptop is a somewhat lengthy process. I won't bore you with the multitude of fine procedural details, but trust me when I say that when a laptop is set on the counter that it causes many a pawn brokers' hearts to sink due to the complicated steps which must then be taken.
One of the steps of entering a laptop loan into the computer requires getting the password for the system (if it has one). The other day, My Twin (see My Twin) was in the middle of completing a pawn loan when it came to the point when he needed to get the password from the customer. He politely asked the customer for his password and received the reply "I love pussy, too!"
A little taken back, My Twin struggled to not laugh in the man's face. Instead, he focused on entering the password into the computer. He tried "ilovepussy2" and "ilovepussytoo" and "iluvpussy2" but these variations of what the man told him weren't granting him access. He then asked the customer "Are there any capital letters? Is that with a capital 'P' or something?"
The customer looked at him in confusion and My Twin repeated himself. The customer then asked what he was talking about. My Twin began to explain that the password wasn't working but was interrupted by the customer--"Password? Oh! It's 'jj'."
It really makes you wonder what the customer thought My Twin asked when he responded "I love pussy, too." Sadly, there was no way he could have asked him without breaching some serious employee/customer boundaries.
06 April 2011
Shameful Facts VS Bragging Rights
The other day at one of our weekly meetings (see Paradise), the head manager of the pawn shop posed an open question about what our favorite things about the job were. We had just discussed places we could advertise that we were seeking employment (see Hiring Woes) and I think she was trying to get us to think about what we liked about our jobs so we would be more likely to promote it to our trustworthy, felony-free friends.
Regardless of my boss's motives, no one was quick to offer a response. After a pause of uncomfortable duration, one of my co-workers responded that she liked how every day was different. I admit that is one of the nice things about the job, but I added that my favorite thing was our highly strange clientele.
There are many, many people who come into the pawn shop who are very unusual. Most of them are polite enough, but that doesn't negate their oddities. It seems there is a number of customers who enjoy making their trashy lives known to all as if it was something worth bragging about. For example, there is one such customer who was recently reaffirming her inability to smartly handle her finances. She looked around the pawn shop as she shook her head, her ghetto accent about twice as thick as it normally is,grew and loudly proclaimed "I'm horrible with money. Horrible. I'm horrible with money." Really? I would never have guessed, what with seeing you in the pawn shop at least twice a week. It really seemed like she was bragging about her poor budgeting skills.
There was another woman who came into the pawn shop this week. She doesn't smell the greatest, but she is super nice and doesn't act trashy in the slightest. She, however, has a personality that suggests she doesn't get out much. She is a very large woman and uses a walker to prop herself up so she can move around. Part of this needed for added support probably comes from her gargantuan dreadlocks. I swear, her hair must weight twenty pounds! Her dreads are exceedingly long and plentiful, many of which are intertwined with various colored strips of cloth (which I think looks really cool). Anyway, this mammothly-dreadlocked woman purchased a crock pot the other day. After I rang her up, I warned her to be careful with the glass lid since it would be very easy for it so slide off and smash on the floor. This warning inspired her to share a story--very loudly and very pompously--of how her dog had gotten on her kitchen counter, knocked the lid off her previous crock pot, and then stole her roast out of it! She said that when she realized the roast was gone, she went right out to her dog's doghouse and found him cowering inside with her roast. As you would imagine, the exaggeratedly dreadlocked woman was furious. She said she asked the dog, "Who the HELL do you think you are?" and then snatched the roast (which she claimed the dog had hardly eaten off of), rinsed it off with water, "dipped it back into the juice", and then cut herself a large slice and ate it in front of her dog to spite him. Yes! She admitted she ate a roast her dog had in his doghouse and eaten off of! Sick! She seemed to think this made her impressive, but it just made me think she was even crazier than I had originally suspected.
Regardless of my boss's motives, no one was quick to offer a response. After a pause of uncomfortable duration, one of my co-workers responded that she liked how every day was different. I admit that is one of the nice things about the job, but I added that my favorite thing was our highly strange clientele.
There are many, many people who come into the pawn shop who are very unusual. Most of them are polite enough, but that doesn't negate their oddities. It seems there is a number of customers who enjoy making their trashy lives known to all as if it was something worth bragging about. For example, there is one such customer who was recently reaffirming her inability to smartly handle her finances. She looked around the pawn shop as she shook her head, her ghetto accent about twice as thick as it normally is,grew and loudly proclaimed "I'm horrible with money. Horrible. I'm horrible with money." Really? I would never have guessed, what with seeing you in the pawn shop at least twice a week. It really seemed like she was bragging about her poor budgeting skills.
There was another woman who came into the pawn shop this week. She doesn't smell the greatest, but she is super nice and doesn't act trashy in the slightest. She, however, has a personality that suggests she doesn't get out much. She is a very large woman and uses a walker to prop herself up so she can move around. Part of this needed for added support probably comes from her gargantuan dreadlocks. I swear, her hair must weight twenty pounds! Her dreads are exceedingly long and plentiful, many of which are intertwined with various colored strips of cloth (which I think looks really cool). Anyway, this mammothly-dreadlocked woman purchased a crock pot the other day. After I rang her up, I warned her to be careful with the glass lid since it would be very easy for it so slide off and smash on the floor. This warning inspired her to share a story--very loudly and very pompously--of how her dog had gotten on her kitchen counter, knocked the lid off her previous crock pot, and then stole her roast out of it! She said that when she realized the roast was gone, she went right out to her dog's doghouse and found him cowering inside with her roast. As you would imagine, the exaggeratedly dreadlocked woman was furious. She said she asked the dog, "Who the HELL do you think you are?" and then snatched the roast (which she claimed the dog had hardly eaten off of), rinsed it off with water, "dipped it back into the juice", and then cut herself a large slice and ate it in front of her dog to spite him. Yes! She admitted she ate a roast her dog had in his doghouse and eaten off of! Sick! She seemed to think this made her impressive, but it just made me think she was even crazier than I had originally suspected.
04 April 2011
Forget The Pimp Cane
A while ago, a man came into the pawn shop and put almost $1,200 of fairie statues on lay-a-way (see The Fairie Fanatic). Well, the same man came back today. But instead of $1,200 worth of fairies, he put $1,100 worth of swords, knives, and decorative weapons on lay-a-way.
When he came in, we were extremely busy (and understaffed). The manager who rang up this transaction needed to move onto some other pawn shop duty and told me to put away the array of 31 items/sets once I got a moment. When that moment finally came several minutes later (as I was also incredibly busy), I discovered that the man had been standing guard over his loan the entire time! He told me that someone had wanted to purchase one of his items and he had to tell this greedy customer that "It's already been taken" (and for some reason, he said this with a Beatle-esque accent).
Oh, the array of these weapons! There was a sword called "God of Fire" which had a large dragon with outspread wings at the base of the handle. There was a really cool pantera (which the man informed me was his second pantera. He would now have one for each hand--why he would need one for each hand is a question with what I am sure would be very disturbing answers). There was a curvy-bladed knife with a graveyard scene painted on it and the stand itself being a graveyard scene, having a spread of skeletons lazing about along the base and a gnarled tree at one end upon which the handle rested. There was a really cool staff which separated in the middle to reveal two medium-lengthed swords. But my absolute favorite thing he put on lay-a-way was a cane with The Grim Reaper's hooded, skeletal skull on the top of it. But the thing that really made this cane so magnificent was how the top unscrewed and you could pull out a 16-inch blade which stuck out of The Grim Reaper's skull like the most dangerous spinal cord known to man! I always thought it would be cool to have a pimp cane, but, forget that now! I want this thing!
While I was making the several necessary trips to take these (and many, many more undescribed) items into the backroom, the man kept informing me about personal tidbits of his life--like how he was having a string of dental surgeries which would probably result in him having to have procelain veneers put in a few years anyway, or how he didn't want to be creamated because he wanted to take his teeth to the grave with him, or how his mother and father both lost their teeth at a young age and how he was going to keep his teeth no matter the cost, or how he was trying to build up his life-insurance policy so he could leave his four children something nice (because his parents weren't going to leave him anything). I just love it when ridiculous people tell me ridiculous things.
Also, I'm trying to get this man to bring in pictures of his home. He has so many strange things he's bought from the pawn shop that I'm sure his living room resembles a Ripley's Believe It Or Not Exhibit. I would love to see that. It is my ultimate goal to obtain a picture to post on this blog so all may enjoy. Don't hold your breath, though. It's a big goal. But I'd rather shoot for the insane than choke on the mundane.
When he came in, we were extremely busy (and understaffed). The manager who rang up this transaction needed to move onto some other pawn shop duty and told me to put away the array of 31 items/sets once I got a moment. When that moment finally came several minutes later (as I was also incredibly busy), I discovered that the man had been standing guard over his loan the entire time! He told me that someone had wanted to purchase one of his items and he had to tell this greedy customer that "It's already been taken" (and for some reason, he said this with a Beatle-esque accent).
Oh, the array of these weapons! There was a sword called "God of Fire" which had a large dragon with outspread wings at the base of the handle. There was a really cool pantera (which the man informed me was his second pantera. He would now have one for each hand--why he would need one for each hand is a question with what I am sure would be very disturbing answers). There was a curvy-bladed knife with a graveyard scene painted on it and the stand itself being a graveyard scene, having a spread of skeletons lazing about along the base and a gnarled tree at one end upon which the handle rested. There was a really cool staff which separated in the middle to reveal two medium-lengthed swords. But my absolute favorite thing he put on lay-a-way was a cane with The Grim Reaper's hooded, skeletal skull on the top of it. But the thing that really made this cane so magnificent was how the top unscrewed and you could pull out a 16-inch blade which stuck out of The Grim Reaper's skull like the most dangerous spinal cord known to man! I always thought it would be cool to have a pimp cane, but, forget that now! I want this thing!
While I was making the several necessary trips to take these (and many, many more undescribed) items into the backroom, the man kept informing me about personal tidbits of his life--like how he was having a string of dental surgeries which would probably result in him having to have procelain veneers put in a few years anyway, or how he didn't want to be creamated because he wanted to take his teeth to the grave with him, or how his mother and father both lost their teeth at a young age and how he was going to keep his teeth no matter the cost, or how he was trying to build up his life-insurance policy so he could leave his four children something nice (because his parents weren't going to leave him anything). I just love it when ridiculous people tell me ridiculous things.
Also, I'm trying to get this man to bring in pictures of his home. He has so many strange things he's bought from the pawn shop that I'm sure his living room resembles a Ripley's Believe It Or Not Exhibit. I would love to see that. It is my ultimate goal to obtain a picture to post on this blog so all may enjoy. Don't hold your breath, though. It's a big goal. But I'd rather shoot for the insane than choke on the mundane.
01 April 2011
Trash Betrayed By Trash
Today at work, I was minding my own business, stocking a microwave on the display floor when I heard a flare of shouting from over by the pawn counter.
Of course, I turned to see what was going on and found a very upset man. Apparently, this man's girlfriend had pawned his PS3 while he was in prison, and now he was out and wanted it back. The only problem was that he wasn't able to get his PS3 back because it was under his girlfriend's account and they had since broken up.
I'd seen things like this happen before. This wasn't the first time that I'd seen someone be upset because they're trashy and were betrayed by their trashy ex-lover. But it was the first time that I had ever seen a customer assault a co-worker of mine.
My manager kept trying to explain what he needed to do to get his PS3 back, but the man didn't want to listen. He didn't want to go through the correct legal paths because he wanted it right then. He said that if we didn't give him back his PS3 immediately that he would trash our store. And he then began to do so! Within reach of the pawn counter is a rack of tools, and with a single tug, the man pulled over said rack onto it's front, sending things flying everywhere!
At this point, one of my co-workers tried to detain the man. It doesn't surprise me. He's a really cocky guy and has said things which made me believe he looked forward to the day he could fight someone while getting paid for it. So, yeah, this foolish co-worker of mine tried to put the customer into a headlock. It would have been great if it had worked, but it didn't. He was pushed backwards and then the man was on top of him, just pounding his face. It was insane!
I couldn't really process what I was seeing. All I could do was keep thinking "This has to be a joke. This has to be a joke!" And, of course, it is! April Fools! No such thing happened! I didn't even go in to work today. Gotcha', sucker!
Of course, I turned to see what was going on and found a very upset man. Apparently, this man's girlfriend had pawned his PS3 while he was in prison, and now he was out and wanted it back. The only problem was that he wasn't able to get his PS3 back because it was under his girlfriend's account and they had since broken up.
I'd seen things like this happen before. This wasn't the first time that I'd seen someone be upset because they're trashy and were betrayed by their trashy ex-lover. But it was the first time that I had ever seen a customer assault a co-worker of mine.
My manager kept trying to explain what he needed to do to get his PS3 back, but the man didn't want to listen. He didn't want to go through the correct legal paths because he wanted it right then. He said that if we didn't give him back his PS3 immediately that he would trash our store. And he then began to do so! Within reach of the pawn counter is a rack of tools, and with a single tug, the man pulled over said rack onto it's front, sending things flying everywhere!
At this point, one of my co-workers tried to detain the man. It doesn't surprise me. He's a really cocky guy and has said things which made me believe he looked forward to the day he could fight someone while getting paid for it. So, yeah, this foolish co-worker of mine tried to put the customer into a headlock. It would have been great if it had worked, but it didn't. He was pushed backwards and then the man was on top of him, just pounding his face. It was insane!
I couldn't really process what I was seeing. All I could do was keep thinking "This has to be a joke. This has to be a joke!" And, of course, it is! April Fools! No such thing happened! I didn't even go in to work today. Gotcha', sucker!
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