I suppose it's my fault, really.
In what kinda world would anyone be dumb enough to go to the computer store to buy an external disc drive on Christmas Eve? A fool's world, I tell ya.
Not only did I brave the menacing crowds, the insane drivers, and waits that made the lines at Disneyland seem like a cakewalk, but I had to go back to the store twice. (No one ever told me that a "floppy" external disc drive is different from a DVD drive; even with a hundred salesmen milling about and it'd be a cold day in Hell before I'd ask someone for help). Anyway, I brought the wrong disc drive home, plugged it in, cursed, drove back to the store, this time taking twice as long because of the congested streets.
But here's where things turned really dangerous...
After waiting my turn in line, the meek, older than me, bespectacled bald man waved me to the counter.
"Well?" he said, clearly as sick of the Christmas crunch as I was and assuming the onus should be on me to start the give-and-take without the need of opening pleasantries.
Ashamed of my computer illiteracy, I explained the situation.
His brow furrowed as he appeared to be looking for something he'd lost. "Where are all of my pens?" he barked.
"Um...I'm not sure," I mumbled.
"Fine, whatever." He jut his arm out, pointed toward the back of the store. "Go get what you need and come back."
I did. The line had doubled. As I slowly inched closer, I noticed Mr. Personality's color had darkened, an explosive bouquet of mad-as-hell red.
Finally end game was in sight! The surly clerk snatched the proffered disc from my hands, slapped it down, sighed, and said, "Look, is this just a purchase?"
I scratched my head. He scratched his. "No, I'm returning one drive for the other. Ah...remember?"
Befuddled (one of his two emotions, the other being Explosive Anger), he closed his eyes, shook his head, and said, "Yeah, yeah, yeah..." When he opened his eyes, immediately he began searching for something again. This time I knew it was his lost mind.
"Dammit," he blurted. "There were four pens before I went to lunch! Not even a lousy half hour! And there were four pens! Four! I come back and there's not one!" He starts swatting the register and knocks over an empty coffee cup, presumably the abandoned home of runaway pens. "Never a single Goddamn pen to be found when you need one!"
Okay, by this point my collar inexplicably tightened. Eyes lasered in on me, Lookie-Loos wanting to know why I'm torturing the "nice" old man behind the counter.
A woman rushes over, possibly the assistant manager. "What's the problem?" she asks me.
"Um, well...there's no problem, just--"
"Somebody keeps stealing my pens! I had four of 'em! Four pens! I'm gone for 25 minutes for lunch, I come back, and they're all gone!" He throws a knick-knack at the register. "Is it too much to ask for just one pen?"
I pat down my coat pockets, hoping to find a pen to ward off the visual daggers being lobbed my way.
Clearly addled, the assistant manager begins playing peek-a-boo behind the counter, popping up and vanishing down again, on a futile pen search.
Finally, the manager goes behind the "returns" wall, and mercifully brings back a pen.
Mr. Congeniality snags it from her and clutches it hard. No one's gonna pry that pen from out of his death grip or God help them if they try.
He finishes the long drawn out transaction and releases me with a friendly, holiday bark. "Next!"
I rush from the store, heart hammering, thankful I escaped with my life. Watching a man melt down over pens was scary. Shooting spree scary.
After I settled down and settled into traffic again, it finally dawned on me: the guy never used his pen for anything, not a single drop of ink spilled. I guess it's the principle that counts.
Happy holidays!
Speaking of crazy people, if I were you I'd probably avoid those folks stranded by a Winter storm at the Dandy Drop Inn. But, by all means, do read about it: Dread and Breakfast can be purchased here!
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