We have one customer at the store that the Dude can't abide. (The Dude being me, and not Lloyd Bridges, Jr.)(Although I'm more the Sam Elliott type, I'd imagine.)(Or hope to be. More than the John Turturro type, anyway.)He's a weird shifty stoner burb
bra, always wears a purple shirt, Umbro shorts circ '94 mormon teen recovery summer camp, filthy mock Burberry slippers and no socks come rain or shine. His toes are grisly
battlegrounds of germs. He has curly kind-of red blonde hair and a moderate staring/mouth gape problem, which in toto is pretty par for the typical bookstore habitue, but we'll call him E.E. Kummings Kreep 'cause there was a 'situation' where he bugged us for three weeks for some Cummings hard cover we had yet to price sitting in a pile somewhere that he wanted dearly, every single clerk at the store including the manager hassled multiple occs., which became A THING, instead of simple customer request, so STRIKE ONE on dude.
The other night near closing time, when I was shutting off the lights, turning off the air conditioners, making sure Leonard had food, avoiding the upstairs ghost (there is one! female!primarily benevolent but bristly!), tapping my "hoof" to the Darkthrone closing music playing downstairs and keeping one eye in a just-incoming copy of Garry Wills' short bio of Saint Augustine, when who should appear? Burberry feet diapers himself. "Hey" he sez, "do you know people in this neighborhood?" With no small amount of trepidation, I answered him in the affirmative. That I did, in fact, know some people in this neighborhood pretty dece. "Well, I'm really looking for something, man." By this point, my colon was churning pre-fart fear bubbles, but I did not flee. "I'm looking for a way to touch the sky, man". I must have stared at the poor bastard for at least 45 seconds, making no gesture. I had no idea what he was talking about, momentarily metaphoriacally incapacitated, mind racing..."is this a sex thing? a code among the young and actionable? I've only given one blow job in my whole life. Oops, I mean two. Mostly for show. Not prepared dear loving god, not me. wait. does 'reach the sky' mean he wants to stretch muscles more? calves tight, lumbars in square bricks, phalanges cracking? is he asking about a yoga studio? i know one on Division. The woman with the horse racing helmet and the elliptical little smile works out there and damn, Jackson, if she isn't foxy six kinds. Yoga pants are one of God's Great Gifts. I see her once or twice a week on her bike. No...no. he wants drugs! of course. Drugs! Hendrix! In the Sky! So easy." Brain banter over, and so much inner relief found, I told him to go to Rodan. You can't get "Legal Coke" (thanks Redman) passed your way under the table in a matchbook for 2 Jacksons, but you can get the white stuff that delays the sunrise (or ruthlessly makes it irrelevant). That guy, though. Still creepin'. And he'll be back. I bet you don't have to deal with people like that at your job. No, you deal with editors, or the bottled water dude, or the UPS guy or Lois Weinberg. Imagine how fucked up he'd be if he was really into Blake?
*******Quick notes*******
1) "The Departed" is C+ in the Scorsese pantheon, I guess. Crazy Jack Nich acting naners, Damon looking worried, Leo D wincey and tough and doughy, cheezy Joyce quotes from young teen toughs, nice Coat Rack stabbing at the convenience store. You'll like it. On DVD.
2) They were playing Franz Ferdinand and the Strokes the other night at the Continental. As in, from 4 years ago. What a dump. People. I don't go out for, like, 9 months and this is the best you can do? Can we at least get some Wipers? Do people listen to the same thirty songs over and over again and nothing else FOR THEIR ENTIRE LIVES? I'm not asking for Jandek here, or the Tall Dwarfs or something outlandish. Just, you know. A different Morrisey album.
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