Holy
crap in a Bundt pan...
Due to the
recent well-publicized shortage of
amateur websites produced by assholes who consider themselves to be
clever, I
have been called into action. My name is Jeff Kay, and I’m an
Ugly American living
on the cusp of a mid-life crisis, near Scranton, PA. And I’m here to
serve, baby.
The
State of My Fat Ass A journal of
sorts, updated every once in a while.
--
After high school and while I was in "college," I worked at a
shitty little grocery store near my parents' house. I was a stocker, or
a bag boy, or whatever name you wanted to attach to the gang of zitty
ne'er do wells who prowled the aisles there in ludicrous knit ties. It
was one of those stopgap jobs, something you do until a better
opportunity comes along, and this was understood. Little was expected of
us, and little was given. And, in turn, we were paid the least amount
the federal government would allow.
One day I was working and a woman came in, filled her shopping cart to
the brim, and walked straight out the front door without paying. The
manager, a man named Skeeter, saw this and came rocketing out his
elevated Pope's perch of an office. He somehow got her back into the
store, and asked her what in the hand-dipped hell she thought she was
doing.
The customer, a big Koko Taylor I can love you like a woman or fight
you like a man black lady, told Skeeter that she'd paid for her
groceries with "kumquat money."
The hell? Skeeter, like the rest of us, was thoroughly confused and told
one of the cashiers to call the cops. And that's when the woman went
wild. She began screeching in some sort of crazed and sustained
high-pitched wail, going on and on about the kumquat money.
The head cashier, a poofter of the highest order, minced over and told
us that the woman had placed a nickel in the windowsill near the front
door when she'd first arrived. He wondered if this was what she was
talking about. Skeeter, shaking his head in disbelief, said a nickel
wouldn't cover it, and again told the guy to call the police.
The next thing I know, the woman has Skeeter in a bear hug and is
spinning him around and around, while screaming like a wild Indian.
Skeeter's tiny boys size 9 shoes were slapping at the air, like he was
riding an invisible bicycle, and I just about crapped myself. We all
jumped into action and came to our comrade's defense, eventually
wresting him from her powerful grip.
When the cops got there they asked for her name, and she told them it
was "Secretariat." They were in no mood for fun and games, and
hauled her ass to jail. I'm not sure what became of her after that.
But I told my grandmother the story the
next day, and she was familiar with the phrase "kumquat
money." She said it was something old-timers used to say, but I
can't remember the details. Seems that it had something to do with
buying items on credit. Any ideas? Have you ever heard this term? What
the hell, man?
-- When I lived in Greensboro I worked at a large record store called
Peaches. It was something along the lines of a Tower Records, not some
tiny piss-ant mall store, thank you very much. I was a manager there,
and so were Brad and Eugene, who sometimes post in our comments section.
Anyway, I was working one night when the cashier told me about a really
strange call she'd just taken. It was a man who was looking for a
specific classical album. After she located it, he asked if she could do
him a favor.
He wanted her to place the LP in a plastic Peaches bag, tape it up
really snug like a birthday present, then put it inside another bag
and tape that one up extra tight. He'd be in, he said, later that
evening to pick it up. Then before he ended the call, he implored her,
"Make sure you use lots of tape, lots and lots of Scotch
tape."
Mildly freaked out, the cashier came to me and asked what to do. I told
her to go ahead and do what he wanted, and I'd be by her side when the
nutcase got there. This didn't seem to provide her with much comfort,
but she went ahead and did it.
Sure enough, the guy showed a few hours later. He was some creepy,
sweaty man in his mid-forties, all fidgety and nervous. He asked for his
package, and we handed it to him. Immediately he began rubbing his hand
over the plastic and tape, then started moaning and rolling his eyes
back in his head.
Sweet Maria. I thought we were going to have to roll out the mop bucket,
and I tried to hurry the weirdo out the door. And while he was paying,
we were treated to the freakiest part of all. He looked us straight in
the eyes, and slowly raised his right sleeve, revealing a forearm covered
in dozens of small pieces of Scotch tape. Holy shit!
A few days later I saw the guy walking across the parking lot, coming
toward us. Brad was in the manager's station on the other side of the
sales floor, and I called his extension. "There he is!" I
whisper-hollered, "The Tape Man is coming through the front door
right now!!" By this point the man had reached almost mythological status
amongst Peaches employees, needless to say.
Brad, without missing a beat, hung up the phone and started yelling
across the entire expanse of the store: "Jeff, do you have any TAPE
up there? I have some things that I really need to TAPE, but I can't
seem to find any TAPE where the TAPE should be!" I joined in on the
fun, and we managed to scream the word TAPE about twenty times in thirty
seconds.
And that was the last time we saw The Tape Man.
I was going to make this a full-on trilogy, but I'm all out of time, I'm
afraid. I have another story that fits perfectly into this Batshit Crazy
People In A Retail Setting series, but it's gonna have to wait.
Why don't you guys take it from here? I'm sure there's no shortage of
tales to tell. Right?
--
After high school and while I was in "college," I worked at a
shitty little grocery store near my parents' house. I was a stocker, or
a bag boy, or whatever name you wanted to attach to the gang of zitty
ne'er do wells who prowled the aisles there in ludicrous knit ties. It
was one of those stopgap jobs, something you do until a better
opportunity comes along, and this was understood. Little was expected of
us, and little was given. And, in turn, we were paid the least amount
the federal government would allow.