"Hold my kids hand"

I've had probably one of the most ridiculous days in retail experience any one person can take and not paint the wall red. (Well, pink. The stain from the spray is always pink.) Last night was St. Patricks Day. As I'm sure most of you figured out already I'm an absolute alcoholic. I love the taste of booze, I like the way it makes me feel, I love how it makes all women think I'm attractive. Well, it doesn't help that I go for pretty girls with very low self esteem.


I can also get DUI's and crash cars like nobodies business.

Those are all stories for another time though. I'm just trying to point out that alcohol ruins my life. Everything that you think is amazing also has it's downside, a Ying to the Yang of boozing.

Story:

A really long exhausting night of drinking and smoking perishables, playing Rock paper scissors, make out with a random at the bar named Rachel. She was really nice actually, I'm going to feel bad about fucking this one over. The line "You have the prettiest eyes." is one of those show stoppers that girls can't seem to get enough of. What's the deal with that? It's so cheesy and ridiculous to even take as a compliment anymore. But that's probably because you can't put a dick in your eyes, so it makes it completely fine to say.

Saying "You have the prettiest ass" doesn't really get the same effect. I tried it. No love.

You can tell it's pretty evident that I think all girls are liars and just dishonest at the core. I got the chance to hang out with an ex last night. The one before Catalina. We'll call her Braelin. Braelin has a very controlling boyfriend, and every time me and her hang out she lies to him about where she is. For very good reason, though. Wouldn't want him to think it's awkward that she's in my car driving around shooting the shit on St. Patricks day. I have to admit though, Braelin is drop dead fucking gorgeous, light eyes with dark hair. That's one of my weaknesses when it comes to women. Second only to blond haired, blue eyed, and retarded. I mean like straight up IQ of forty and absolutely no common sense. The idiot tandem. When you're not book smart or street smart. You're just, worthless.

Anyways.

Well, back to Rachel. After a little Hi I just met you, let's make out within an hour action she had to leave to go do ... something. Something about work? Who works on the day after St. Patricks?

Oh, that's right. I fucking had to. Just like hundreds of millions of other people. The unemployed, Do not think all is lost. At least you didn't have the day I was about to have.


When I got home at 4:00 am I can't even get my fucking key in the door. Go alcohol, you made the simplest task destroy me. I'm sure this has happened to you. The door that you unlock countless times every day, but this one time, it's just making you feel stupid. That was me, for over a minute.

I kind of stumble in, I'm sure my hammered face is in full swing. This is how you know when you should definitely go to fucking bed. When you walk into your pantry and see a can of Beefaroni and you hold it in your hand and contemplate the tribulations of putting it in a bowl and in the microwave for three minutes. So then you figure, fuck it.

Ill just eat it out of the can. Cold. I'm a class act and a catch.

I sit down on my computer to try to type my self a note for the morning. This is what I read in notepad when I get up.

"grl racgel nice 978-xxx-xxxx"

Yeah. it's 5:00 AM and I need to be at work for 7:00. That means I have two hours to sleep and try to not be drunk for when I get to work. I set my nifty little alarm clock, that plays these sweet fucking little rock drum beats instead of that incessant beeping.

Time Travel: 10:37 AM

Of course. I had slept directly through the hour of the break beat alarm clock that's loud enough to wake the neighbors upstairs, but not loud enough to wake me out of my drunken slumber. What the fuck was I thinking anyways? That I'd be able to get two hours of sleep after twelve hours of binge drinking? I look at my phone, Three missed calls. Six unread text messages.

"Where the FUCK are you?"

I give my boss a call and I tell her, listen, you scheduled me for the the day after St. Patricks and you know I'm a lush. She actually is pretty cool about it when I show up, reaking of booze, eyes glazed like doughnuts, not in uniform, and most importantly ... still a bit drunk. It was odd though, I didn't feel all that drunk. I just felt a little off.

Asshole Customer Numero Uno.

Alright. First off, I work at an auto parts store. Where people come in and tell me what kind of car they have and what part they want. We are not mechanics, miracle workers, or psychics. We have a computer that tells me where the part is located on a car, and where it's located in the store so I can sell it to them.

That's it.

"ah, Hey dude, I uh, I have like this weird, uh like, fluttering thing happening"

"Yeah?"

"Do you know what it could be?"

"Well, no. I'd need more information before I could sell you a part"

This is where every one thinks we're fucking mechanics. Like I'm going to go out to your car and drive it around the block then put it up in the imaginary fucking garage with the tools we don't have. Go pay a god damn mechanic if you want to know why your car isn't working correctly. Then come to my store, and I'll sell you the part at an inflated and ridiculous price.

The way it works, is if I don't know what's wrong with some ones car just by listening to them tell me it makes a funny noise. They get pissed. I've never seen so many thirty year old and older get so enraged and act like eleven year old girls since I started working here.

Oh, and another thing, Put on your own fucking god damn wiper blades. It's not that difficult. They snap on. They snap off.

Asshole Customer Numero Dos.

So I'm ringing this guy out for tail-light bulbs. He's your stereotypical guy we get in there. Stupid as fuck, and thinks he's the man. He returned two other bulbs because he knew exactly what he needed. I know this, because I asked him. "Hey, do you know exactly what you're looking for?"

"Yeah, man. I've been driving since I was sixteen."

Alright. I understand. You're in your forties and you know everything. You can pick out which bulb you need by just looking at the hundreds we have in the store. I just let these people do their thing, because I know, that in an hour when they come back in the store I can do the "told you so" thing.

So I'm at the register ringing out this dip shit, and there's a price difference. Holy shit? How could this of happened? Two different products costing different amounts of money? He doesn't understand why or how they could be a different price. Alright, I'll just deal with it. I try to explain it to him slow and rational like.

He looks at my name on the tag and says. "Do you even work here, or are you just stupid?" Oh. Ok. I just got insulted by a man who looks like Kermit the fucking frog in front of every one in the store. What sucks about retail is you're not allowed to blow up on customers no matter how angry they make you. I call over the manager to explain to the gentleman that two products that are different will evidently... not be the same price. Just because you go to McDonald's and order a Big Mac, and you're pissed that it's not .99 like a McDouble (Really lame name for a sandwich) because they're both the same thing.

I got a "verbal" warning for this.

To add insult to injury after he figures out the problem and realizes he's wrong. I just say a couple simple words. The exact words he said to me.

"But yeah, I don't work here, so"

I got verbal warning for that. You've got to be shitting me. Fuck my life.

The best part about when I know I'm right, I can just sit around and wait for it. The look of "Oh, fuck I was wrong, and I can't talk my way out of it any further." This gentleman put his head down said sorry and walked right on out the store like a good little bitch.

Asshole Customer Numero Tres.

This customer right here is the most ridiculous thing to have happened, ever, In the history of retail. He comes up to me and asks me to go outside to check his Check engine light. He's got his four year old son with him. He's literally dragging his kid by the hand.

This gentleman leads me to his car and then asks me to check what kind of oil filter he has on his vehicle. Alright. Well, that's not really what my job is, but how about you take it off and show it to me. The guy then proceeds to ask me if I would "Hold his sons hand" while he was taking the filter off.

I'm going to repeat that. A total stranger, asked another total stranger, a hungover twenty-three year old white kid to hold his kids hand for him while he checked his oil filter. I'm really fucking blown away by this. I tell him "No, man, I'm not holding your kids hand." Then of course, the guy goes ape shit. Tells me I'm the worst employee at the store and that he always get amazing service from every one else, etc, etc.

Oh yeah? This isn't a fucking day care, asshole.

I feel awkward enough holding my best friends baby, let alone some random dudes four year old chubby little faggot of a kid. Who was wearing three times to small for him spider man shirt that looked like it hadn't been washed in awhile.

And why the fuck would I have to hold his hand? We're in a fucking parking lot. Does he have downs? Does he just randomly freak and run into traffic the second you let go? I should of just said yes and then watched him get turned into hamburger on *taken out* ST


Who gets mad about me not wanting to hold your kids hand? He then gets a manager and starts to complain about how my attitude needs some "readjusting" and that I wouldn't help him with what he need to get the job done.


My manager just said "I'll talk to him, I'll talk to him." She comes over to me, laughs in my face about the situation and before she even says anything I say "listen, he told me to hold his kids hand, and I'm not about to look like a child rapist in my uniform." This is the most unreal day in my entire life. All of this happened before I even got to take lunch.

This is one of those days I really, really wish I didn't drink. I got written up three times in one day. I'm still hungover and I'm falling asleep as I'm typing this out.

I wonder if Rachel is gonna take me up on my offer for lunch this weekend. She better. I never got a chance to fuck her last night. But, I bet she made it to work on time.

Fuck you, St. Patrick.