Be careful what you wish for... (10-21-14)

Monday nights are not too busy at work. Perhaps I should clarify that statement. I’m as busy as I want to be at all times because I always have tasks and projects to do but in terms of customers coming in, it’s usually a bit lacking. My main job is at my desk and on my computer but if a customer comes into my room and needs help, I’m supposed to drop everything to do it. As you can imagine when it’s busy and lots of people are coming through, I don’t get much done online. People are the priority. With that in mind the best case scenario is when regulars come in. They know where everything is and have less of a need to ask questions. Sometimes this is offset if I have a friendly relationship with them and we end up chatting a little but most regulars come in, check and see what’s new and then head for the door with only brief pleasantries exchanged. This was one of those slow nights, but it wasn't boring.

One of my friends stopped by and I began multitasking, that is, trying to converse and work at the same time. There were only 2 customers in my room the whole evening. Thankfully my friend helped to take my mind off the other one who was making me a little uncomfortable. This guy has been in 3 times in the last week or so. He’s new and a little odd. First off, based on how he’s dressed in the exact same dirty clothes every time he comes in I have to assume he has a dirty job. Perhaps he’s a custodian, a mechanic or a laborer of some kind. His hair, while mostly balding is all over the place. His fingernails are filthy and I don’t think he’s too concerned about his appearance. He might be jobless for all I know and that could also explain the same dirty ensemble with each visit but his appearance nor even the mild odor coming from him isn’t what troubles me. It’s the fact that he talks to himself constantly. He’s only 20 feet away so I can’t quite hear what he’s saying because it’s closer to a mumble than regular speech but it’s like I somehow unlocked the door to his mind and every thought is just spilling out of there, out loud, for me to enjoy. I think he’s the guy they had in mind when they coined the phrase “thinking out loud”. I talk to myself sometimes, but never when someone else is within earshot. I’ve always been unnerved by people who seem to tune out everyone around them and just talk to themselves, oblivious to everything.

It wasn't as bad the other 2 times he came in last week... maybe I had something a little more focused to do, or maybe he was farther away, or maybe he didn’t stay as long, I don’t know, but tonight he’s making me extra uncomfortable. He’s digging through our huge selection of 45s furiously as if he’s looking for a needle in a haystack. He has a sheet of paper with him and it seems he has a list of the 45s he’s looking for. Unfortunately, it might take some time. When I say we have a huge selection, I’m not kidding. We have nearly 20,000 of them and they are only semi-sorted. Some people come in and give up before they get started due to the intimidation of having to look through that many records but not this guy. This guy is determined to look through the entire collection, as fast as he can in order to find whatever it is he’s looking for. I should note he’s left empty handed at the end of his last 2 visits.

Every once in a while I look up at him, working his way through each box of 45s, looking frantic yet steady. When he pulls one out to inspect it further he holds it to within an inch or two of his eyes. I guess his vision is not quite what it should be. His constant chatter seems more frequent tonight than the last 2 visits. Even once in a while he yells out “C’mon!” at the records as if he was expecting to find something but didn’t. I can’t focus on what I’m doing. Although most of the 45s are on tables, he bends over to grab a box from the floor. I was sorry I looked. He had a belt on his dirty pants but it was clearly not working. I caught a glimpse of crack and turn my head quickly in disgust.

Let me tell you something about crack. If I’m going to be unlucky enough to see some dude’s crack, I’d rather see a big dude’s crack. A big man’s crack is warm and fuzzy, sometimes literally, and more importantly it’s a stereotype. That means it’s not a surprise. They are funny. We’ve all seen it. We expect it. That's not to say we like them, I don’t think anyone does but it’s not going to send you away shrieking due to the unexpected horror. Now skinny man’s crack is always a surprise, and if the guy is thin and dirty, that makes it downright terrifying. You don't want to know what's in there. A fat man’s crack is often going to show but you also know his pants aren’t going to fall down. That big ass is going to resist the pants on the way down at some point and lock them into position. When you are looking at the crack of a thin guy who has no ass, all bets are off. If that thing slips, there’s nothing to catch it. You can go from a glimpse of crack to a full moon in a split second and the threat of that convinced me not to look that way any more. Besides, I knew where he was... I could still hear him.

Thankfully my friend came in and our chatter took my mind off the one way conversation I was (or wasn’t) having at my desk. We caught up a bit and when we were on the other side of the room we briefly discussed the strange guy talking to himself. Because we were talking about him for the first time in a while I took a quick look over there. Again I regretted it. His pants were now dangerously low. Something had to give! Thankfully it was the clock. My friend had been there over an hour but this guy was around far longer than that! He was dedicated. He was working on 2+ hours of incoherent rambling and digging. I started to wonder if I was overreacting. Was it really so bad? Was I wrong about him? Maybe he was just talking to the records. Would that make it any less weird? I wished again that he would pull those pants up. He was flirting with disaster, pun intended, and yes it was really that bad.

My saving grace was that it was near closing time. The top of the hour and the end of the work day were only 15 minutes away. I said goodbye to my friend as he left and went back to my desk. Before I sat down I announced to the man that we would be closing in about 10 minutes. He was shocked. He yelled out “Oh s**t!” Where did the time go? Time flies when you bury your head into anything so passionately. I started making preparations to leave, little things like turning off my printer, locating my phone and then taking a quick look at the guy to see if he would comply. He was even more frantic than he was when he searched through the records. This time I could hear what he was saying, he was going over which tables and which boxes of records he had checked and which he hadn’t, perhaps planning to brighten my day again soon with another visit to complete the task. He walked over, again empty handed I might add and stopped right next to me as I sat at my desk. He asked if I had a pen he could use. I looked up at him and could see he was clearly eying the pen on my desk. I think he already knew the answer to that question but the question going through my mind was; do I want him using MY pen?   

Let me tell you something about my pens. Even though the company provides us with a ton of various pens I am very picky about the type I use. I love Papermates, gray with black ink. It’s been my favorite style of pen for about a decade. I buy my own and bring them in. I like the way they feel. I like the balance. I know what you’re thinking; which one is the weird guy again? Whatever, I really like my pen. What I don’t like is letting people use it. Sometimes people don’t return it and I have to chase after them and other times people have colds, germs and a level of funkiness I don’t want coming into contact with something I’m touching frequently. This dude was pretty funky. So I pause before answering his request. I think about where the nearest alternate pen is. We’re looking at least 15 feet away. Since he’s staring at mine, to get up, ask him to excuse me as I pass him and go on a hunt for an alternate pen would be rude. I wonder why I care so much? So reluctantly I grab my pen and kind of half-hand it to him. He walks back over to where he was last and begins to write something down, an idea of where he looked and where he didn’t so he doesn’t waste time when he resumes browsing. I can’t say I would argue that logic. I’d probably do the same.

I look at my computer screen and check the time. I start closing all the open windows on my computer and check again to make sure I have my phone. My eyes drift back over to the guy to see if he was both ready to go and done with my pen and I find myself both satisfied and completely disgusted. It was a good news and bad news situation. The good news was he was finally pulling up his pants. The bad news which disgusted me is he needed to use both hands. How is that disgusting? He used both hands to pull up his pants but he didn’t exactly put my pen down. Where did he put it? In his mouth! He had the pen in his mouth and was holding it there with his teeth while he reestablished his waistline. I wanted to scream NOOOOOOOOOO! but it was too late. The pen was in there. There was nothing I could do. Yelling at the guy wouldn’t have helped. All I could do was sigh and then laugh. I thought be careful what you wish for because sometimes you get it. I wanted him to pull up his pants so badly. Mission accomplished but at what cost!?!?!

He gave back my pen and I made sure to grab it towards the tip that wasn’t in his mouth. I put it down on my desk and stared at it while the guy left, again without purchasing anything. I just brought this pen in a few days ago so I didn’t want to toss it but we were definitely at an impasse. He probably only had his mouth on the cap attached to the top of the pen but that was little comfort… if I threw away the cap, I’d have a pen with no cap. I have other pens at home, but like I said I didn’t want to toss this one, and borrowing a cap from one of the others seemed silly, because I’d have more pen than caps. My mind was running as frantically as this guy looked the 2+ hours he was here. The store was about to close in less than 5 minutes and a decision had to be made!

Think fast! I looked around at what cleaning materials were nearby. I saw CD disc-polish, vinyl cleaner and Goo Gone. I quickly checked the cap to see if he bit into it hard enough to leave bite marks. He did not so I sprayed the pen with Goo Gone, wiped it down and then repeated the application. After wiping it clean the second time I felt satisfied. No pens had to die. As I left for the night I thought about how weird that guy was but also how weird I am. I guess we are all weird in our own ways. As crazy as the night was, it was a harmless evening and gave me a story to talk about, so things could have been a lot worse.

Fast forward to tonight. The same guy, wearing the exact same clothes, looking filthy and disheveled, showed up nice and early today at 4:30. I guess he’s going to put in twice as much time as yesterday. I’m not taking any chances though. In case he does not finish browsing through the thousands of 45s I have to be ready. So I'm grabbing an extra pen, a dummy pen if you will, because I don’t know where this guy has been but I can tell you with absolute certainty where my pen won’t be going. 

Crime and Punishment (10-8-14)

I wasn’t a model child. I was always rebellious, always curious, often to a fault. Sometimes my need to know resulted in a need to be punished. I got into trouble occasionally but if you looked around the neighborhood, in comparison to others around my age, I was thought of as a good kid. Back then, I’d see bad kids doing bad things all the time and their parents didn’t care. For a time I thought they were cool. Those kids had it made. On the other side of it I was held to a higher standard. When some of the neighborhood kids stayed out a few hours late, they’d waltz in to no repercussions, no consequences. Their punishment was that maybe they missed dinner. When I did the same, I would be in “big trouble”. Now don’t get me wrong, I didn’t do these things often and that probably heightened the seriousness of when I did, but at the same I didn’t think it was fair. I would get in trouble and others wouldn’t. When I acted the right way and followed the rules, I didn’t get anything extra for it. No rewards! What was the point? I didn’t realize I was doing what I should have been doing all along and didn’t deserve anything extra for it. But when I saw other kids getting $20 for straight C’s and I’d bring home straight A’s to no response whatsoever, I’d get jealous. I wanted to have as much fun as the other kids, live under the same rules, or lack thereof. Sometimes I’d hear sitcom dads on television say “You don’t understand why I’m doing this now, but someday you will”. My dad never really told me that but I did know he was disappointed and upset every time I gave him a reason to punish me. I could almost feel the “this is going to hurt me more than it hurts you” in his eyes, despite the fact that in those moments, it hurt me a whole lot… more on that later. The point is, sometimes I followed the crowd and did some very dumb things… all part of an effort to fit in.

Once in a while I got away with it. I learned to get better at hiding things from him, it wasn’t hard. My dad wasn’t what you’d call an attentive guy. He generally gave off a “leave me alone” vibe. I don’t think he was cold, but with him being a month short of 50 when I was born there were several generations between us. We often had trouble communicating. We didn’t understand each other. I don’t know if we ever could. On top of that he was a disciplined military guy. He loved boxing, baseball and fishing. He was very manly, very traditional. He didn’t talk about feelings, explore the philosophy behind things or talk about dreams. I thought boxing was stupid, baseball was boring (sometimes) and I was disgusted just trying to bait a hook. I cried routinely at beautiful things, openly talked about how I felt and asked questions… just not around him. He was tough and I was tender. We had some similarities but our differences were vast. We were just from different times.

One thing any parents who cared in my neighborhood did was whip their kids when needed. I saw some kids get beaten with a switch, a yard stick and I even saw one kid get beaten with a broom. Whenever it was my turn my father would take off his leather belt. When I saw him reaching for it I would sometimes start to cry preemptively. I knew I was about to feel some pain. I don’t remember ever bleeding from a “whoopin” but many times I would have red welts on my legs, my back or my behind. Whenever I was on the verge of doing something stupid a thought would always enter my mind; “is this worth a whoopin?” It certainly became a deterrent on many occasions especially if I thought there was even a small chance of getting caught. Did that fear keep me away from the drugs, the gangs and unplanned pregnancies that swept through my neighborhood? It’s possible it was a contributing factor but it wasn’t the only one, remember deep down I was a good kid. But was their another way? When you’re little and you’re in trouble you aren’t exactly thinking about suggesting alternate methods of punishment, especially if you don’t know any. I just assumed every parental figure whooped their kids. Whenever we encountered the rare kid whose parents utilized a “time out” or something we considered “soft”, we thought their parents were hippies, new age weirdos or maybe just super rich… because rich people didn’t beat their kids. It always seemed to us that in poor and working class neighborhoods kids got their asses whipped when needed. It built character. This was all I knew.

As I went through my teen years something happened. My relationship with my father evolved. First my father was getting pretty old. I was also getting pretty big. Sometimes in my rebellious mind I wondered if he tried to whoop me for something, would I just instinctively, emotionally decide to fight back. It wouldn’t have been hard to turn the tide on a 60-something year old guy with emphysema, even if he was mean and tough. But thankfully it never reached that point. I don’t know if the whooping stopped because he got old or I got right. I still did stupid things during my high school years but nothing that deserved major punishment. I was learning the basis for what would be my moral code and I think I had also developed a respect for my father. Behind all the rebellion and modern slang I think I started to respect what he tried to do for me. I was still grounded every once in a while but thankfully the belt no longer came off. Perhaps we both learned something.

When I hit my college years and he was reaching the end I began to understand what those sitcom dads were talking about. I deserved to be punished. It showed that my dad cared unlike many of the other parents in the neighborhood who didn’t. The punishments and the fear of a whoopin’ caused me to rethink some decisions and led me towards doing the right thing. Not every time, but enough times. Fear in the absence of wisdom. It did the trick. So with that said, I wouldn’t change anything about those days. It doesn’t mean I agree though. I understood the end results but as I became a man I began to question the methods. Grounding was fair, depriving me of things I liked would have been fair as well. But whipping my behind until I was crying uncontrollably, that’s something I cannot abide.

I deserved to be punished those times I lied, stole or cheated and I wouldn’t change it but I have to tell you, that I would never strike my child. Just because it worked for me, or I think that it did, it doesn’t mean I wouldn’t have learned right and wrong through other means. It also doesn’t mean I should do the same thing he did. Much like the generation gap I felt between he and I, these are different times today. If that weren’t enough of a reason, I also know I’m a different person than him. We’re both emotional and hot tempered, but unlike him I am very sensitive and affectionate. I often consider the meaning in my actions, the effect they may have on others. I don’t think he did. Maybe he just did what he did because that’s all he knew. It’s not an excuse but it is a reason. I still hear about people whipping their kids but it’s definitely not as popular as it used to be. Why are less people doing it? We aren’t getting softer, we’re getting smarter. Spanking, beating, whoopin kids, no matter what you call it is a form of child abuse. We can talk matter of degrees in terms how much is enough to qualify for that distinction but I feel like one belt, one switch, one broom to a kid is one too many. It’s my personal belief that if you feel you have no recourse but to beat your child, you are not doing a good enough job as a parent. Of course, I’m not trying to tell you how to raise/treat your kids, I’m just telling you my story… the story of a good kid who was beaten with a belt when he was bad, but would never treat my child the same way. This is the story of a man who understands tradition and why it’s sometimes important to change it. This is the story of a man who has learned to love without fear… who won’t back down from what he believes. In a strange way, I think my dad wouldn’t want it any other way.