Creep # 3

To fill a little space, here is one of my many collected Creeps.

What is a “Creep”, you ask?

Well, allow me to inform you: I happen to work in an Adult/Head shop.

“That sounds amazing!” You say. “I’d love to have your job!”

Oh, would you? You want to be leered at by greasy, sweaty men? You want to be repeatedly solicited based on the fact that you either said “May I help you?” in a customer service/retail setting, or the fact that the dressing room looks like The Champagne Room. (There is NO sex in The Champagne Room!)

It isn’t all bad. It allows me time to write, catch up on my reading, do a little too much Facebooking, perfect my Windex-ing techniques and maybe have a couple cocktails. But sometimes I get a customer that is so outlandish, crude, disgusting or hilarious (at least to me) that I just have to write about them. And dub them “Creep”

I’ve been collecting them for a while now, hoping to eventually compile them into a novella that will make having to deal with them in real life completely worth while.

What’s that, you say?  You’ve had enough of my explanation and demand that I get to the story?

You sure are bossy, but so be it.

Creep #3

Walking back from Starbucks, with an iced coffee that some perverse old war veteran (who is rather fond of giving me hugs at random) had purchased for me, I am crossing the plaza and I can see a girl hanging from her arms draped around some boys’ neck– The Trashy Make-out Couple.

I grimace and continue on to open the store, which is of course where they are headed. Their make out session made possible by my “Be Back in 5 Minutes” sign taped to the glass and locked door. As with most customers, they putter around for a second before heading to whatever it is they are really after.

His face is pock marked. He’s short and squarish with a ginger way about him, though not as pale. In place of freckles, deep craters and sun damaged leathery flesh. He stands at the front counter with his clothes too many sizes above his own. Small man complex, compensation. Looking at his stance and refusal to remove his Terminator shades I can see just how right I am. He asks me if the detox cocktails in the glass display case really work.  I pull out one of every bottle and explain the rules of each one. As I talk I see that she is wearing a buttoned shirt, left open midriff, and across her pale sagging stomach the stark contrast of what could easily be hateful claw marks catch my eye. Like something tried to pull her stomach right off of her frame. More likely, stretch marks, not all too different from a girl who has recently given birth, which would not bother me if she weren’t a little oblivious to her appearance. Not pleasant. She looks strung out and exhausted. Maybe she’s coming down. She asks him how long he has before his test, and he shakes his head. They say nothing. They just stand at the counter staring into the case. I walk away after an awkward period of silence.

She shows up stealthy quiet at the register. I turn my head and see her out of the corner of my eye. Both hands placed directly on the glass, leaning in close. And although her posture and subject matter would suggest it so, she does not whisper. She asks loud and clear, “Which vibrator do you think works best on the wall?”

I look at her blankly and my eyes switch from her to the wall, searching for an answer to such an awkward question.

Occupational hazard.

Game face.

Before I can respond, she looks at me and says, “I mean, do you own one?”

I respond that I do not, but I am told that a certain type is bad for you. It can damage your diaphragm, and that it really depends on what looks like it might be for to her. Every woman is different and likes different things.

“Dildos are like snowflakes.” I hear myself say

She searches the wall with her eyes, but they keep drifting to her companion. She steps away and they continue to roam the store aimlessly before eventually drifting out the front door.