Wednesday, February 20, 2008

Moment? Minute? Millenium? Stevie's all of 'em.

I've been playing with the idea of starting a bit of a serial post here on this blog. I've gone as far as designing a logo for it, but not much further. The logo is a man with a mullet, and instead of a face the letters CotM are stylistically implanted. Since I had a hard time moving this logo from paper to gIMP [open source is awesome] I kind of scrapped the whole idea, but something happened to me today that totally changed my mind.

CotM was supposed to stand for Customer of the Month, but when I realized that I have way too many crazy customers, I decided it should stand for Customer of the Moment. Well, today I really had to consider exchaning Minute for Millenium, because today, Stevie came into my life.

Stevie is a discheveled looking young woman. She swears like a sailor, her hair is falling out in clumps and she hasn't yet been able to get her herpes in check. She's wearing a dingy scarf, a fake fur-lined buck skin jacket and distressed blue jeans. She's a closet ginger, with freckles covered up by cakey make-up and a piss poor auburn dye-job on hair that looks more translucent than red. She's what I'd call your typicall hot mess.

She wanders around the store for a bit, before coming up to the counter with a small list written on a sheet of three-hole loose-leaf paper.

"I need everything on this list," she blurts.

So I scan the list in my usually haphazard style. I see some tune up parts; spark plugs, ignition wires, air and fuel filter. The list is topped by two items that require further inspection. The messy blue ink seems to say 'stamps', succeeded by the cryptic 'mail p. papers'.

I quip with a smile, "uh...we don't sell stamps," choosing, for purposes of disclosure, not to mention her legal woes. I try to shoot from the hip, as far as humor is concerned at work. Well, her humor comes down the barrel of a .357 aimed right at the back of my head.

"Yeah, I bet you won't mail my parole papers either, huh?"

No smile. No giggle. Bam. I didn't even see it coming.

So I take a few deep panting breaths to regain my composure, and start to look up her parts. All the while, I am having flashbulb memories of the night that Jim Carrey hosted Saturday Night Live. If you remember that episode, you'll surely remember Jimmy Tango's Fat Busters. The premise is pretty simple; Jimmy Tango's Fat Busters is Crystal Meth. One of the female cast members is giving a testimony on how effective the program is and it's rolling through my conscious though. My hair falls out in clumps, I sleep in the oven and when I wear black, I look like a closed umbrella but thanks to Jimmy, last weekend at a party I made out with Scott Baio! And all the while I am looking up her parts, she is monologuing at me.

"I don't understand why I should pay for all of this from a mechanic. The last time I had my car tuned up, it cost me $500.00. Now that I can do all of this myself, because now I know how to do it myself, I can do it myself and save a couple hundred dollars!"

I then explain to her that some of the parts she needs, I have to order, and that they need to be paid for in advance [read: I don't want to get screwed].

"That's not a problem." The word 'problem' causes a problem. She spits on my hand. I withdrawn and she dives into her purse, presumably for a tissue, and I respectfully decline. I've got my own.

"I'll come and pick the stuff up tomorrow around nine. I have to do all this work myself, because now I know how to do it myself. I guess I'll save a few hundred dollars that way. Oh, you know what? I better get an oil drain pan as well, I don't want to have to spill my used oil all over the mall parking lot."

Double take.

She then presumes to stand around and make idle chit chat with me, boredering on flirtation, as I carry on with my regularly scheduled tasks of the afternoon.

At some point, seemingly hours later, I muster up the courage to say, "well, you're all set, have a nice day."

The response? "Ok, well I'll see you tomorrow..." are we friends now? "...You'll be here, right?"

I nod sheepishly.

"What's your name?"

At this point, the very end of the Fats Waller song This Joint Is Jumping is playing at one million dB in my head: Don't give your right name, no, no, no..., but I can't stop, I'm out of energy to think up anything on the fly. "I'm Alex," and I am totally fucked.

"Oh, I'm Stevie, see you tomorrow, Alex."

I'll probably file and update tomorrow, and if she doesn't show up, I'll be cruising the blotters.

1 comment:

Kevin Convery said...

Yes times infinity. I hope to god Stevie comes in tomorrow. I really think that you should befriend this hot mess and bring by the house one night and get her drunk, with all of us. I don't think you've taken into account that if we get this woman all sorts of fucked up we could possibly have the most intense evening of conversation ever. Imagine the pictures. Does she smell like gasoline?