28 January 2011

. . . And I Do My Little Turn On The Catwalk

Today a man came to the counter with a small triangular clock. I thought he was going to be a simple customer. Boy, was I wrong.

First, he wanted to know if the clock worked. I pulled a AA battery from a drawer behind the counter, popped it into the clock, and showed him  how the second hand began moving. He was pleased.

This fellow was somewhat flighty and was very conversational. Thus, while I was about to ring up his cheap-o $1.99 clock, he asked me if we ever had sales on our leather jackets. I told him that we did, but I had no idea when such a sale would occur or what type of discount it would entail. We actually have lots of leather jackets, but they don't sell too well--which I find odd because I think we have some very nice jackets at decent prices.

Anyway, I told him even though we did not have a sale going on right then, he was always welcome to make an offer on a jacket and we could see how far down we could knock the price.

This excited the man.

There was a specific leather jacket he had in mind. He informed me that the price was originally $29.99 and that he would take it in a heartbeat if it was $15.00. I told him that if he showed me the jacket that I could talk to a manager about the price.

The jacket he showed me was in very good condition. It was genuine leather and very soft. I didn't care too much for the design, it was retro in all the wrong ways and looked like a biker wannabe jacket that was also trying to be respectable at the same time. The designers were clearly confused about what they wanted to do with that cow hide. Anyway, the man repeatedly asked me if it was a man's jacket. I assured him it was (even though there was some doubt in my mind of the jacket's concrete masculinity) and took the jacket to a manager. His response was that we would sell it for $21.99.

I brought the jacket with the adjusted price back to the customer and he persisted that we should sell him the jacket for an even $20. I refused, he nagged, I continued to refuse. I told him twenty-two bucks for a jacket was a steal and that he would never find one that cheap ever again. He agreed that he probably wouldn't, but continued to whine about the price.

Eventually, he decided to try on the jacket, but as we did not have any full-length mirrors, he was unsure about how he looked. He then took off the jacket and told me to model it for him--so he could see what it looked like when someone was wearing it.

I obliged with many feelings of awkwardness and turned around for the man a couple of times. It was kind of fun. I'd never been asked to model anything for anyone before. But it did the trick because after my little catwalk turns, the man exclaimed "Sold! You should have been a model!"

After quickly removing the jacket, I began to ring up the man. As I was doing this, he repeatedly asked me if I could sell the jacket for $20. I replied that I couldn't and assured him of the great deal he was getting. Eventually, he gave in and told him that, after all, 22 was his lucky number. I responded that it was fate he was getting such an amazing jacket for $22, after which the man began to hound me to throw in the $1.99 triangular clock for free. I gave him twenty cents off instead. What a cheapskate.

27 January 2011

The Time Capsule of Broken Phones

There is just too much to do in a single day at the pawn shop for this faithful employee, especially when my boss continuously gives me additional tasks to complete without any regard for the fact that it is humanly impossible to get so much done. There is just not enough time in the day, nor do I want to make time to complete it all. That would require too much energy, and, I'm sorry, but I don't get paid enough.

Beyond my daily Loan Walking, I have been given two additional reoccuring responsibilities--keeping tabs on how many game systems we have in the back by counting and updating a detailed spreadsheet listing the various systems each week (which I haven't done for the past few weeks. Oops. And by "oops", I mean "I didn't do it on purpose because I didn't care") and keeping the part of the "houseworks" part of the showroom (three sets of shelves which display household items such as microwaves, alarm clocks, artwork, boardgames, and MUCH MUCH MORE) stocked. Staying on top of those three things is very managable, but the other other things my boss told me to do are not because 1) of how time consuming they are, and 2) there seems to be some sort of conspiracy that has people constantly coming into the pawn shop to pull me away from my special chores.

Anyway, one of my additional tasks was to rearrange how some of the loans had been stored. I was to move smaller, lighter loans to higher shelves so as to make room for the larger, heavier loan. The reason behind this should be obvious. It keeps our pawn brokers safe by not requiring them to lug heavy things up ladders. But the phsycial rearranging is only half of the process. The other half involves writing down the new shelf numbers where I moved the loans and updating that in our system so they can be found when someone comes to redeem their items. This part takes me to a computer in the showroom and this is when those pesky customers see me and feel the need to bother me with questions about surround sound systems or iPod prices.

Anyway, at one point while I was in the warehouse, my boss pointed out a large, plastic storage tub which had wires hanging out of it as it sat on a loan shelf. This was very odd since the tub wasn't marked like a loan and was stored in such a disorderly fashion. 

When I finally got around to the mystery tub, I discovered an array of house phones, most of which were wireless. I began to rumage through them and found that a few of them were marked as being broken. Now, when something is broken, we are supposed to put them in a designated area of the warehouse so they can be taken to our other store where they are either repaired or thrown away if repairing it proves impossible. Instead, someone had disregarded this protocol, shoved them into a tub, and then put them onto a tall shelf. Why? The world may never know. But we do know, from the dates the broken phones were marked with, is that this breach of pawn shop guidelines occured in early 2005.

Yes, the broken phones had handwritten dates on them from March of 2005. They were worthless and collecting dust and taking up space for nearly six years. As ridiculous as that may seem, I kind of like it. It was like finding a time capsule because in pawn shop years, six years is more like thirty years.

Unfortunately, the employee responsible did not leave a friendly note for us to find along with the ancient communication devices. If only they had. Then I would know what it was like to work at a pawn shop so long, long ago.

22 January 2011

The Hilary-Hater Was Not Amused

If it were up to me, I wouldn't allow anything but Hilary Duff movies to be played on the numerous TVs displayed throughout the pawn shop (see The Glory of Hilary Duff), but my co-workers are of a different opinion., one in particular.

I had two days off in a row, and when I came back, I was shocked to see that the TVs were no longer displaying the Hilary Duff films I had personally hunted down and put in them. I inquired into who had swapped out the movies, and one co-worker admitted to the treachery and defiantly declared his annoyance with my sweet, sweet Hilary.

But it's okay. Two can play that game.

Recently, I was working and this bitter co-worker had the day off. So, of course, I gave him a taste of his own spiteful medicine. I wasn't able to find enough Hilary Duff DVDs to play on all the TVs like I had before, but I found several of them and made sure they were in place for the next morning when this spiteful man would return to work. He arrived earlier than me the next morning, and when I came in, he had already changed all of the DVDs. When I asked him about who changed the DVDs, he was very confrontational about it, stating that "Hilary had her time" and that he was "sick of her movies."

This only gave me more reason to persist with my Hilary Duff obsession.

Now he and I are in the midst of a war that involves the sneaky transferring of DVDs. He is much more vehement about it and has even said that he wanted to buy all the Hilary Duff DVDs that came into the pawn shop just so he could break them in front of me.

I kind of like that idea. It would be very entertaining to see.

The other day, I took a copy of Hilary Duff's live concert (pictured on the left) and stuck it through the double doors that lead into the back room where only employees are allowed. I raised my voice and bobbed the DVD case around as I spoke to make it appear as if it was Hilary herself talking to them.

"Why don't you love me?" Hilary asked. "Why don't you like my concert? I know how to raaaaaaaaaawk!"

The Hilary-hater was not amused.

20 January 2011

My First Period

The other day I was given the task of moving a number of boxes. Here are the little details that made this a difficult undertaking. 1) There were many, many boxes that needed to be moved. 2) They were all crammed with paperwork and several of them were falling apart. 3) They were all stacked on shelves that were twelve feet high.

I really don't mind doing things like this. I think it's kind of fun--menial labor, that is.

Anyway, the boxes were stored in our little warehouse where we keep all of our pawn loans. Now, the aisle where this paper work was stored was pretty full and had lots of things either sticking out from the shelves into the aisle or just resting in the aisle altogether. This meant that I wasn't able to fully open or properly balance the ladder I needed to use. I had to leave it closed and slant it up against the towering shelves.

Now, the leaning ladder wasn't too bad. It was very sturdy and wasn't going anywhere, so I had no worries about it sliding out from under me. But the hazard that is my sometimes clumsy nature was a potential threat to my life. Little did I know that rather than falling off the ladder, my oafish nature would materialize in a different form that day.

The task went fairly smoothly. I climbed up the ladder, got a box, carefully set it on my shoulder, climbed back down, carried the box to where I was stacking them for eventual removal, returned to the ladder, and did it all again. And again. And again. And again.

At one point, I was just about to set a box down on the floor when I noticed that half of one of my hands was covered in blood. I often find my hands bleeding from some minor wound I didn't realize I had sustained. It's a part of my life. 

Of course, I went right to the bathroom, washed the blood of my hand, and put a band-aid on my knuckle wound. No big deal. I've done that a million times. That finished, I made sure I hadn't gotten blood on anything. I checked the ladder, and it was fine. I checked the shelf where I had last been working, and it was clean. And when I checked the boxes I had been moving, I found one tiny smear of blood on one of them. But that wasn't a big deal. I just tore off the little bit of cardboard that had blood on it and threw it away.

Feeling relieved, I went back to work.

And then I noticed it.

A big blood stain. Next to my crotch. On my khaki pants.

It looked like I'd finally become a woman.

Mortified, I went to the bathroom and tried to scrub the blood off. I made quite a bit of progress, but for those of you who have encountered blood stains, you know there is just no getting the blood totally out of light-colored clothing--especially with water and paper towel alone. Try as I might, a light red smear that was easily identified as blood remained.

I tried to continue on working, hoping that the spot would lighten up and disappear as my pants dried. It didn't. In contemplated just working and hoping no one would notice, but I didn't like the idea of my blood being on my pants. I kept thinking about bumping into things and leaving particles behind.

Luckily, I had been planning to attend a friend's birthday party immediately after work and had brought clothing to change into. Without telling anyone, I switched into my black jeans and continued on working.

At first, I hoped no one would say anything about my change of attire. But then I got to thinking.

Just because my co-workers didn't say anything about my pants, it didn't mean they didn't notice that I'd changed. I began to wonder if they had noticed but were confused and discussing what possibly could have happened to make me change pants behind my back. Maybe they thought I desecrated myself or had a weak bladder. I started to wonder if I should just draw their attention to my pants and then make a joke about how I'd gotten blood on them, but that felt too insecure and desperate. I told myself to stop being such a baby and carried on as normal.

In the end, no one said anything about my change of pants that day. I seriously doubt anyone noticed, but I could be wrong. They could not be referring to me as "The Poopy One" or "Sir McPee-In-His-Pants" when I'm not around. Ah, paranoia.

15 January 2011

Get The Hell Out

I, and many of my fellow employees, find the pawn shop's closing policies to be very annoying. For one, we don't lock the doors and officially close until ten minutes after our supposedly closing time. For two, we are not allowed to ask customers to leave the store, thus allowing them to look around for as long as they like without realizing that we are closed and that they should get the hell out. For three, while our oblivious customers are roaming the store after we close, we are unable to begin our closing procedures--putting the jewelry into the safe, sweeping and mopping the floor, and bringing in the bikes, ladders, etc in from outside--which results in having to work longer than any of us would like.

Why do we not lock the doors until ten minutes after our posted closing time? Why can we not tell people we are closed or drop hints that they should leave? There are theories, but none of them justify such annoying practices.

Theory #1 -- We do these things out of courtesy.

Disproval of Theory #1 -- It may be a courtesy to the customers, but it is a great discourtesy to the employees who are often kept at work thirty minutes later--or longer--than was planned, oftentimes causing problems with the plans they made for the evening. Yes, it may be a courtesy, but our hours are posted. If someone doesn't make it on time, who cares? I'm sorry, but if you don't make it, you don't make it.

Theory #2 -- We do these things to make more money.

Disproval of Theory #2 -- Most people who roam the store after hours do not buy a single thing! They browse and browse and browse until the word "browse" loses all meaning and the employees are ready to take a samurai sword from the shelf and assault them, and then they slink out the door without purchasing anything. Sometimes, people do buy something, but that is a rare occurrence, and even if they do buy something, what they spend is usually not enough to cover the costs of keeping all the employees there, especially towards the end of the week when most of them are working on overtime.

Tonight, we locked the doors at ten past five and had several customers still in the store. This always puts me in a horrible mood. I curse a lot under my breath, say horrible things about the customers to my co-workers, purposefully find ways to shirk my duties, and scowl like scowling is the only thing I know how to do. In the past five months, there have only been a few times when we've locked the doors and had no customers in the store. I hate it. I absolutely hate it. I would love to storm over to them and tell them to get the hell out. Maybe I'll do that when I quit. It would feel so good.

Of course, most of the customers don't deserve my hostility. They legitimately don't realize we are closed. In their defense, we do close pretty early (6:oo pm during the week and 5:oo pm on Saturdays), and we don't tell them we're closed unless they ask. And when customers realize we are closed, most of them hurry up and try to leave as quickly as possible. Although, there are a lot of customers who don't care and continue taking their sweet time.

When we closed this evening, there were multiple people still in the store. There were two men who were looking at a cellphone. After several minutes of debating it over, they decided against buying it and left the store only to return two minutes later to knock on our door (which is glass) and ask if they could be let back in because they decided they wanted the phone after all.

I would have told them to come back when we were open. In my mind, when we're closed, we're closed. They had their chance to buy the stupid phone. Sadly, I wasn't the one who responded to their knocking on the door. My manager beat me to it and let them back in. He probably thought they were just going to grab the phone, pay for it, and then go--since they had already been looking at it for so long. But if he had expected such an outcome, he was mistaken. These two men looked over the phone and carefully tested out the touch screen and various functions for fifteen minutes before they finally completed the purchase.

I know I'm horrible, but I hope they have a car wreck while using their phone.

But I suppose these two very thorough men didn't really matter in the long run because of the old man who was wandering throughout the store during all of this and then for twenty minutes afterward.

I was furious.

He looked at everything, and I mean everything. He cocked his head sideways and I swear he read each and every one of the DVD titles we had on display--which was around six hundred. He went over to our guitars and looked at each one individually. He perused every single purse. He looked over all of our game systems. He just wouldn't stop! He just kept looking and looking and looking! I swear. It was like he had dementia and had no idea what anything was!

And then when he finally did leave, he went away empty handed. What a surprise.

14 January 2011

Loan Walking

I have recently been given an added responsibility at the pawn shop, and it is quite the doozy.

I am now responsible for what we call "Loan Walking", a single process that includes many steps. For purposes of the blog, I will only supply you with the general duties of loan walking and not all of the little monkey wrenches that get thrown into the mix to make things more complicated than they should be.

Thus, my loan walking duty includes the following steps:
1) Making sure all the loans have been packaged and stored correctly
2) Making sure the loan descriptions are complete
3) Taking down notes about errors that were either made in the loan description or how the loan was stored
4) Figuring out who made the mistakes and then writing them a note describing the error and how to fix them
5) Checking up on previous mistakes to make sure they have been corrected.

Depending on how many loans there were from the previous day (generally around sixty) and how many mistakes were made, this requires anywhere from two to three hours of my time. It's a tedious job, but I really enjoy it. It allows me to hide out in the back and not directly interact with customers, which is often a blessing. There are many customers who are nice and interesting--I've met tattoo artists, rehabilitation counselors, prison guards, Build-A-Bear employees, people working in the medical field, and lots of average Joe types--but there are a lot of people who are loud, rude, and just plain stupid. But those are stories for a later time.

Back to loan walking--One of the more unfortunate duties is making sure everyone is correcting the mistakes they've made. Each day, I write out the mistakes each employee made on their own pieces of paper. I then put these papers into each employee's file. In turn, each pawn broker is supposed to check their file every day and then correct the errors I describe, but there are some of them who habitually make the same errors--almost as if on purpose or with no regard for the rules--and some who don't even check their files at all. The bad thing about this is that these rebellious types tend to be the pawn managers.

I asked my manager what to do about the pawn managers not correcting their mistakes and was told I was supposed to bring it up to them as a reminder. Okay. I can do that. But I don't want to. They've been working at the pawn shop a lot longer than I have and they know what is expected of them. I feel weird approaching them to remind them to fulfill their duties. But remind I must.

Regardless of the awkward leadership dynamics, I enjoy joking about the power I now wield. Essentially, I get to tell people what they're doing wrong, tell them how to fix it, and then make sure they fix their mistakes. I've cracked jokes about making up new "legislations" that would require the pawn brokers to do strange things like yodeling or smacking their own butts or curtsying when they put loans on certain shelves. Of course, I have no such power. I am just a minion, but I like to pretend. It gives me something to chuckle about to myself when I'm in the back amongst all of those loans. It does, after all, get rather loanly. (I hope you get the pun. I told it to one of my fellow employees and he didn't. I felt rather stupid.)

12 January 2011

I'm Sorry, OSHAman, It's Actually All My Fault

The other day, to everyone's great surprise, a gentleman representing the federal organization of OSHA (Occupational Safety and Health Administration) came into the pawn shop and asked to speak with the head manager.

OSHAman informed my manager that there had been complaints filed against the store and that he was there to check things out. They spoke for a while and then my manager gave OSHAman a tour of the pawn shop, particularly the back area. He took several pictures and then asked to speak with a few employees.

I was somewhat disappointed I didn't get to talk to OSHAman, only because I was curious to see what he would say, but I was also relieved because I probably would have said something wrong and gotten the store into trouble for no reason. That's how I roll.

Anyway, my fellow employees who were interviewed said that OSHAman asked them if they felt safe while working at the pawn shop--if they were fearful that things were going to fall on them or if they were ever exposed to hazardous materials. Neither of them had such concerns. In the end, OSHAman didn't find any legitimate issues with the store, which is great, but that raises the question of who filed the complaint.

There had been an employee who had been let go about a month back. He wasn't a horrible worker by any means, but he frequently messed up the paperwork on paycheck advances and he was normally late arriving to work. Anyway, I remember the day he was let go. He was late, of course, and in a very foul mood because I think he knew it was coming. We were behind a counter and looking at the list of things that needed to get done for the day and he criticized one our manager's handwriting, stating that he wrote like a "f***ing five-year-old girl." I disagreed with him and said it looked more like a boy's writing to me, but he didn't appreciate the joke. He was later called into the office to speak with the head manager and then I never saw him again.

It seems likely that this disgruntled former employee was the one who sent OSHA after us. And, I haven't shared this with my managers or co-workers, but I actually think the two complaints that were filed--that the store is unsafe because things could fall on employees and that workers are exposed to hazardous materials--were my fault.

I can remember two instances with this former employee. One time, he was crouched down and rearranging a display shelf and I was reaching up to a higher shelf to move something. I accidentally knocked over this cutesy birdhouse decoration thing and it was sent over the edge of the shelf and it hit him on his head. The second instance involved me spraying Windex onto a paper towel, only the Windex didn't so much go onto the paper towel as it did into this former employee's eyes. I'm still not sure how that one happened.

Anyway, it's ridiculous that he would file complaints about such silly things. I mean, those were freak instances that he must have exaggerated in his complaint. Although, it is strange that both of these complaints stemmed from things I did. I'm both disturbed and somewhat proud of this.

06 January 2011

I . . . Don't . . . Think . . . It's . . . Porn

The pawn shop has been having an influx of merchandise lately, and I'm sure Christmas is largely to blame. My suspicions are that A) people spent too much money on presents and are now selling their things in order to pay back their Christmas debts, or B) people are selling the Christmas gifts they received but don't want. Maybe there is a hidden third option, but, either way, there are many, many new things to be sold at the pawn shop.

In the back room, one of my fellow employees was shifting through a stack of DVDs that were ready to be put out for sale. He then accused a newer pawn broker of buying pornographic movies. Intrigued, I approached the accuser and asked him what he meant. I was then shown three DVDs with covers that were covered with pictures of women in skimpy bikinis and Spanish words like "sexy" and "comedias."

I told him I didn't think they were porn. I agreed that the cover art was questionable, but they seemed a little too innocent to be real pornography. Also, the word "comedias" suggested against the films having hardcore content. The pawn broker who rang up the transaction for those DVDs said he didn't realize what he'd done, that he'd rang them up without looking too closely. He wasn't willing to voice his opinion on the matter. He just looked sheepish and avoided the topic.

We joked about taking the DVDs out to the show room and putting them on the TVs so we could figure out if they were pornographic or not. The pawn shop doesn't sell pornography, so, if we were to put them out for sale, we'd need to make sure they were okay beforehand. Of course, none of us took the risk of playing the movies. If we had taken the chance, they probably would have ended up being very raunchy. I could just imagine something really bad coming onto the multiple screens--Spanish two girls and a cup, perhaps. Children would have started crying and a mustached man probably would have approached us and asked how mcuh the DVDs cost. But besides the risk of subjecting our clientele to the most disgusting pornography available, testing the DVDs on the TVs would have removed Hilary Duff from our viewing pleasure. Yes, she is still playing on our TVs, and it only gets better everyday (see The Glory of Hilary Duff).

At the end of the day, I had the lucky task of taking out the trash. We have one extra large plastic trash can that we wheel out on a dolly, and tonight it was overflowing, but laying across the top of the cardboard, junked merchandise, and paper waste were the three "sexy comedias" with all of their bikini-clad mujeres. I told a co-worker that I still didn't think they were pornographic and suggested he take them home and find out for us. He seemed scandalized that I would suggest should a thing and refused. I ending up throwing them all away. Lo siento, mis amigas bonitas, but you're too risque for this pawn shop.

05 January 2011

Thank You, Horrid Cleavage Baby

The other day at work, I noticed a woman peering into the tall glass case where we display various gaming items (systems, accessories, games, etc). I approached her and asked if she would like to see anything closer. She did, and I unlocked the case.

As would be expected, we lock up things that are expensive and/or small enough to be easily slipped into pockets or purses. So, whenever we unlock any of the various display cases we have around the store, we remain by the customer's side while they peruse our merchandise to make sure they don't steal anything. Thus, I waited next to this woman while she looked through our stacks of Game Boy DS games, and it was one of the most horrible experiences of my life.

The woman was holding a baby, and despite it's inherent baby cuteness, it must have been a very devilish child because it kept pulling on it's mother's collar. What made this so horrible was the fact that the cut of the mother's shirt already displayed a generous amount of cleavage, and the baby's tugging exposed even more of her breasts. Combine that with the fact that I had a bird's eye view of everything, as I was a foot taller than the woman and standing right next to her, it shouldn't be too difficult to understand why I was feeling so uncomfortable. I kept thinking about misunderstandings and accusations and lawsuits and what a vile child that baby was for making me so paranoid.

I tried to keep my eyes fixed on the Xbox 360s on display (I'd never been more thankful that they don't have cleavage), but she kept asking me questions about the games and I had to keep looking over to see what she was referring to and subjecting my eyes to her cleavage.

It was horrible! The woman's right breast was almost being tugged out of her shirt and she didn't even notice! She just kept rummaging through the DS cartridges. And what was I supposed to do? "Uh-hem, ma'am. Your baby! Your boob! For heaven's sake, do something!" Right. I swear, if that baby had pulled that neckline just an inch lower . . .

Eventually, the woman settled upon two DS games and I was able to lock the case and retreat into a less cleavage-ridden area of the pawn shop. I hope that horrid cleavage baby is happy.

01 January 2011

The 3 Stages of a Balloon's Life

When it comes to having a big sale at the pawn shop where I work, you may not be able to predict what the exact sales will be, you may not be able to find what you want, you never know what kind of mood I will be in (although, chances are I will be in a foul mood and trying not to scowl at the droves and droves of customers who just won't go away), but one thing is for certain--there will be balloons.

We had balloons for the sidewalk sale, we had balloons for the One Day Sale, and we had balloons for Black Friday. We also usually leave the balloons displayed about the store for several days after our sales. I mean, why not? The helium is still good. But one thing I am certain most people do not realize is that we reuse our balloons.

The balloons themselves are the shiny, more expensive kind, and being the frugal business woman she is, the head manager of the store refills these balloons for $3 a piece instead of buying new ones for $5 each whenever we have a sale. But, in order to do this, we have to keep the balloons. It would seem like it would make sense to untie the ribbons that keep the helium trapped inside, carefully fold the balloons up, and then store them somewhere until they are needed, but we don't do that. Instead, we lead the balloons through the backroom into the bathroom and leave them there until they fulfill their balloony purpose.

This has given me a great deal of exposure to balloons, and my observations have led me to conclude that there are three stages in a balloon's life.

Stage 1 : Carefree Youth

This stage lasts for about a week. When stored in the bathroom, they are magnetized to the ceiling. The light bulbs filter through them and the bathroom is tinted with shades of green and purple. They are playful and carefree like all youthful balloons are, and they warm my heart because whenever I venture through the multitude of balloons strings that hang down from the ceiling, I can't help but imagine I am Tarzan swinging through the jungle.

Stage 2 : Delightfully Creepy Middle Agedness

This stage lasts for about two weeks and signals when they balloons begin to grow tired. Analogous to losing their minds, they being to lose their helium. Most of the balloons stay in the bathroom and just mill about lethargically amongst themselves, hovering about at chest height, but they may be sometimes found doing strange things. There was one green balloon that seemed like it was taunting me. I went to go to the bathroom and it was hovering in the center of the doorway as if to block my entrance. Later that day, I turned around and it was floating not three feet behind me as if it had been waiting for me to notice it. I kept returning that odd balloon to the bathroom, but it kept aimlessly venturing throughout the back area of the store, almost as if it had dementia.

Stage 3 : Euthanasia-Justifying Decrepidness

This is the part when balloons should just be put out of their misery. The longer the balloons are left in the bathroom, the more pathetic they look. Their original vitality and cheerfulness is but a hazy memory as they are blown across the floor like dust bunnies. They are on their deathbeds, begging for us to release the last of their helium so they can finally find rest. This past week, I noticed that they had all been shoved into a corner of the bathroom and had stayed there. It was a nice change of pace as they weren't constantly underfoot, but then I noticed that they were huddling around a plunger that I knew had been recently put to use. Their ribbon strings were tangled around the handle and plastic plunger, and I didn't even want to imagine the microscopic horrors they had come in contact with.

I never recognized how diverse the life of a balloon is. But, all in all, even though they are fun to have around, no civilized human being should let them become so old that they lose the majority of their helium and become best friends with the plunger. It's a horrible way to end a life, and I really don't like the idea of reusing balloons that have fecal germs all over them.