"So yah, you know how shitty it is to pick up furniture, hooyah.."
"Yep... Too bad Brian's nat here. He'd find this funny..."
"Yeah," (laughs) "Remember the time he put in the door upside down?"
(more faintly disturbing laughter ensues). Now the customer turns to the receptionist.
"Soahh... I'm gonna pay by cheque, eh? I called and they said I could."
Now you know as soon as you hear something like that that she didn't, in fact, call. So our receptionist, who has incidentally been canned due to taking in three bad cheques in the interim, wandered in to the manager's office and explained the situation. He grunted something about not taking the cheque, and then promptly left in his circa-1960s vintage red Scrooge manager's jacket. This was unfortunate, as it left our weenie manager in charge. Anyhow, receptionist warns him of probable conflagration, goes out, and tells this lady she can't take the cheque.
"WHATWHATWHAT!??!?!?!?!"
"I'm sorry, we no longer take cheques on pickup, as we have no real way of verifying them. Is there some other--"
"Oh no! YOU SAID- YOU ... Ooohhh... FUCK!"
At this point, the manager wisely sweeps the commotion into the other room, leaving various people standing about looking mildly shocked. Periodically, bursts of profanity echo throughout the store. Almost like Christmas carols, except haggard. Finally, the manager calls me in and informs me that the screechfuck would like her money back. He tells me to ensure that the debit card she gives me matches up with the numbers on our slips. This Was Also A Mistake.
"Okay, I just need to check up your debit card with the slip here, ma'am."
"You... This is fucking ridiculous! You won't fucking take my cheque? Fuck you!"
(Yes, she really was this incoherently profane) At this point, the manager steps in.
"I'm sorry, ma'am... Are you sure you don't want us to--"
"Just shut the hell up! I don't even want to TALK to you!"
At around this point, I find the card doesn't, in fact, match up. Y'uh oh. I show it to the manager, who then politely informs the lady we're not giving her a refund right then.
"WHAT? IT'S MY FUCKING MONEY! GIVE IT BACK TO ME! I WANT IT NOW! I'M NOT LEAVING THIS FFFFFUCKING STORE UNTIL I HAVE MY MONEY BACK!"
"Well, I'm sorry, ma'am, but unless you can speak to me in a civil tone of voice, I'm going to have to ask you to leave--"
"FUCK YOU! YOU FFFFFFFFFUCKING ASSHOLE!" At this point, she begins to screech incoherently, interspersing various threats and cursing without much thought to her surroundings, which just happen to be a furniture store with about thirty people watching a very spectacular tantrum. At this point, the manager tells her she has to leave, and she refuses. Instead, she shakes with rage and runs to the middle of the store, where she starts babbling about her case and swearing at the top of her lungs. At this point, the manager tells the receptionist to call the police. The receptionist tells me to call the police. I stall for time by flipping through a phone book; this gives the manager time to move the situation to the front doors, and then to the parking lot, where she remains for another ten minutes or so until four of our most imposing employees get them the hell out of there.
Anyhow, want the best part? Her husband came in the next day and picked up after paying by credit card.
It's around 3:00 when the first shouts start emanating through the store. At first, it's just an intermittent, fantastically irritating sound, kind of common- kids, for whatever reason, like to scream, and no matter that they're tossed in the most echo-conducive location in the store, conveniently located right next to my office space. So anyway, it's around 4:00 when the situation comes to a head. I miss most of the fun, having been down in service, but I get to take part in the denouement. Anyway, here's how it goes. The kid, it seems, has Turret's, and all the concomitant swearing and such. So when his father asks him to leave (cuz the kid has started a freak-out), he erupts into an even more spastic fit of screaming and swearing. This leads to a half-hour battle to dislodge the poor tyke. Finally, Daddy succeeds by dragging the kid out by his leg. Junior starts swinging at Daddy, who loses him halfway through the store when the kid punches him in the face, shattering his glasses. Following the chase scene, a decidedly less glamorous chokehold seems to be in order. Naturally, various ladies take exception to the scene, leading to the following exchange:
"What is he DOING to that child?"
"I don't know, but I'm calling the police." This, of course, attracts the father's attention, and he assures them piously that this always happens, and it's not abuse, and then tells them not to call the police.
"Well, I don't care what you say!" Cellphone Crusader huffs. "I feel there's something wrong going on, so I'm making the call!"
Way to go, Miss America. You sure saved the day on that one- or at least, the boring, boring day of the two cops who subsequently showed up to hear the sordid tale. Since our superhero of furniture justice also took down the license plate number, they were able to call the parents and find out what the hell was going on. Apparently, this had happened before, and frequently even. So why bring the kid with you?
"I didn't think it would happen this time."
ROCKET GENIUS!
RATING: * * / * * * * * - Extreme Irritant
RATING: * * * / * * * * * - A Little Bit of Excitement In An Otherwise Dull Day
RATING: * * * */ * * * * * - A Real Crackwhore, That One
RATING: * * * * * / * * * * * - Instant Classic!!!
-1/2 point ratings get dropped to the nearest classification.