The very minute our store closes, the former Yoga Studio downstairs turns into one woman loudly running some sort of Aerobics program over Zoom.
So I turn off The Simpsons or Teen Titans or whatever and it's "COME ON GIRLS, LIFT THOSE LEGS!!! HANG ON, WE'RE NOT DONE YET. GO!!!! GO!!!! GO!!!! YOU CAN DO IT!!!!" with blaring country pop and light hiphop with 80s samples.
Tonight, she keeps somehow knocking over whatever device she's using to play music, and has to start the song and the same shouting routine over.
So, it's time for me to lift my legs dafuck outta here.
Me, a queer person, reviewing a book by a straight, cis, white woman:
"I hope more queer writers get work in the industry so that (a straight, cis, white woman) and her ilk can go back to writing fluffy, inoffensively bland hetero relationship comics" (instead of stories about queer male teenagers).
"If you're a woman who enjoys the fetishization of gay males to help you get up in your feels, than this bullshit is Your Bullshit, and you're welcome to it."
A straight, CIS, white woman: "I disagree! It gave a great representation for the lgbtq+ community and it definitely wasn’t fetishized. I thought it was just any other love story."
Me, internally: "Shut up, Camille."
Today's been a pretty great day for customers. We've been making progress on some projects in the back, selling some action figures that have been in the store longer than there's been a store. Pretty great.
Me: "This is Adam, how may I help you?"
Random Caller: "Hi, are you the owner?"
Me: "Nope. I'm the manager."
RC: "Could you do something about your car?"
Me: "Um. I don't have a car."
RC: "The Trek Truck."
Me: "I don't know what that is."
RC: "Every day it's either parked in front of your store or in front of the health food store across
the street. I think it's part of your electronics department."
Me: "Nope. We don't have any trucks or an electronics department."
RC: "Are you sure? I see it there all the time."
Me: "It's not us. I don't know whose truck it is."
RC: "What are they doing there?"
Me: "I don't know."
RC: "There's two men in it sometimes. Adult men. Grown men. Do they work for you?"
RC: "Why are they there, then?"
Me: "I don't know. They're not associated with our store in any way."
RC: "This is so weird. I need to know who they are."
Me: "Ok. Good luck."
RC: "Where did they go?"
I hang up the phone.
"Guys, I have a comic that's never been touched, that's worth, like, $200. It's the original Superman comic." says a kid whose future includes congress, lobbyist, Fox News reporter, or whatever job description includes Obvious Fraud.
Anyone who's ever worked in the service industry will tell you that No Matter How Long It's Been Since You've Waited Tables whenever you're really stressed out, you stress dream about waiting tables. Missing orders, people who get up and leave for no reasons, not knowing table numbers, wrong food, coworkers not showing up, etc.
About six months ago, all my stress dreams transitioned into Trying To Order Comics. Usually, they're super brief ten second or so dreams that wake me up. A book won't show up in Diamond. Our POS won't work. I have a pile of special orders and no way to tell who they're for.
Tonight's was ... different.
A distributor was calling, trying to get me to order more copies of their books. And I was trying to explain to him that nobody had ever bought his books from us, so I couldn't justify ordering more, and he kept suggesting ways I could reach out to people to get them to buy his books.
What were his book's names?
"Polite Misogyny", "Unintentional Racism", "Traced Porn Faces And Plotholes", "Homophobic Stereotypes By Someone Who Hasn't Yet Realized They're Gay", and a giant hardcover called "This Hasn't Aged Well".
I kept handing copies to regular customers who sat down, read the books in their entireties, and asked me questions I couldn't answer because I hadn't read the books.
Then they would leave. Without buying anything. Including their massive piles of preordered books. Because they were so put off by the books I had tried to sell them.
Can we please reach the stage of the pandemic where the Restaurants In My Dreams can reopen so I can go back to not knowing table numbers?
Random Loiterer walks into store, over to counter, and with no preamble says "I don't mean to brag" uggggh "but my hand was Batman's first girlfriend."
"Huh." I replied.
Then he walked out the door.
It is with a heavy heart, and an even heavier fist that I must announce that Comrade and I are breaking up.*
No, there was no theft of organs, no pretending one of his parents was dead when they were really alive, no hot positive loads of cheating. Nay.
I think you will all agree that, in The Year Of The Shitlord 2021, nobody should be subjected to repeated performances of "Winter Wonderland" in the style of Fred Schneider from The B-52s. I had to draw the line somewhere.
* - We're not breaking up.
This Lyft driver is strongly hinting that I should use his services to rob a bank or commit a murderer. Like, guy, I barely have it together enough to order dinner tonight, there is zero chance I have the wherewithal to organize a crime with you.
I just heard someone describe System Of A Down as "Ye Olde Rocke", and now I have to get a colonoscopy and start clipping coupons.
Spotify: Hey Adam, we've made a mix for you of new music from up and coming artists.
Me: Ok. Sure. Bring it.
Spotify: Have you heard of Death Cab For Cutie? The Cure? Modest Mouse?
Spotify: NEW MUSIC from UP AND COMING ARTISTS.
Me: Crooked Teeth came out fifteen years ago, Spotify. It is not "new music".
Spotify: I AM STILL A RELEVANT WAY TO FIND NEW MUSIC.
Me: This is The Shins, Spotify. They've been around for about thirty years.
Spotify: OK. OK. But have you heard of this new band THE WHITE STRIPES. WHERE ARE YOU GOING?