My Gay Roommate: “I was surprised. Every place in Provincetown carried Moxie.”
Me: “How are you surprised that a town full of people who voluntarily put their tongues in men’s buttholes think Moxie tastes good?”
Tonight’s bar conversation is centered around rating the Marxes.
Most of us have either Harpo, Groucho, or Karl at the top spot. The one thing we all agree on? Richard is on the bottom.
A woman just walked into the store, accidentally knocked over the trash can, started picking up pieces of things that fell out and started PUTTING THEM IN HER MOUTH. “I find something on floor, I eat.”
Seriously, which of you is spending all this money to hire actors to fuck with me? Because if this lady isn’t an actor she is all wrong in the head.
Creepy creeper has been in the store for fifteen minutes making lame jokes and lamenting that no one’s in the store (three people left when he came in and started talking.
He approaches the counter with his comics and says “These are from my subscription.”
Me: “What’s your last name?”
CC: “Dangerfield.” He pulls on his tie and tells me about the amount of respect he’s not getting.
"Your actual last name.” I sigh.
CC: “Puddin-Tane. Ask me again, and —”
Me: “What’s your actual last name?”
My eyes are audibly rolling. “I can’t give you your discount if you don’t tell me your last name.”
I enter his comics in and tell him the price.
CC: “That’s with the discount?”
Me: “Sorry, Mr. Dangerstiltskin-Puddin-Tane, you’re not in our system.”
He gives me his proper name, and I give him the new total.
"How much is that Rocky & Bullwinkle comic behind you." He asks.
He pulls his tie again. “That’s cuh-raay. If I had forty bucks, I’d spend it on broads, not books.”
"I’m guessing they’re not exactly lining up on your doorstep, though, huh?"
He does his Rodney Dangerfield impression again, and leaves.
While I was dealing with Creepy Creeperson, a homeless man came in and beelined it to the porn section, where he stood back to me, reading a book and making…noises.
I finally made my way over there to discourage him, only to find that he wasn’t reading Sizzle or Housewives At Play, but was, in fact leafing through How To Understand Israel In Sixty Days, and had Guy Delisle’s Pyongyang next to him.
Sorry for misjudging you uncreepy homeless guy, keep on reading.
Customer walks in just after I’ve shouted “Fuck you.” and hung up the seventh robo-call of the morning. “Trying day?”
"No. It’s one of those days that tells its parents it’s trying, but really it’s sitting in the back of the class sexting someone it doesn’t even like."
Woman knocks on window, about thirty minutes after I’ve closed the store. “Can I come in real quick? I just need to see if you have a book I’m looking for.”
Me: “I’m sorry we’re closed. The register is locked so I couldn’t sell anything to you anyway.”
Her: “You’re closed?”
Me: “Yes, we closed at ten.”
She smirks at me. “Then why are you still in the store, reading comics and eating ice cream?”
Me: “Because nine year old me had dreams, and thirty year old me achieved them.”
Unkempt Sixty year old man with a tattoo under his eye that is not a tear. It is undecipherable. Instead of killing someone in prison, he maybe annoyed a teacher in Day Care when he was younger. “I came in for your Hulk Hogan t-shirt.”
I realize it’s going to be one of THOSE mornings. “We don’t have Hulk Hogan t-shirts.”
"Yes you do. I was in here yesterday." He wasn’t. I was here. "And you had Hulk Hogan t-shirts."
"Nope. That wasn’t us. We have Incredible Hulk t-shirts."
"Gimme one of them. Fifteen dollars."
I head to the boxes. “What size?”
I sigh. “That’s not a size. Small? Medium? Large? XL? Double XL?”
"Gimme the biggest one you got."
"Unfortunately, the biggest Hulk shirt I have is large."
He grunts. “You used to have Double XL.”
"That’s probably true. We don’t now, though. Would you like this large?"
I walk over to the computer and enter in the shirt’s code. “Sixteen ninety-nine.”
"Sixteen ninety-nine for the shirt."
"Give me the sale price."
"There is no sale price. It’s sixteen ninety-nine."
"I want the fifteen dollar Hulk shirt."
I check the computer. “There isn’t one in the system. This is the cheapest one. It’s sixteen ninety-nine.”
"I want the sale price."
"There isn’t one."
"How much after tax?"
"There’s no tax. It’s sixteen ninety-nine."
"So it’s fifteen dollars plus tax."
"Sure. Why not?"
He hands me a twenty. “Do you think you’ll have that fifteen dollar Hulk Hogan shirt back by the end of the day?”
Random Customer: “I am looking for Pool Boy.”
RC: “Pool Boy. Is hero. Great hero of America.”
The only Pool Boys I can think of aren’t exactly out fighting crime. “I don’t know Pool Boy.”
RC: “Yes. You know Pool Boy. I know you know Pool Boy.”
I head to my trusty laptop and google “Pool Boy” “comics”, and a series of image appears that explains everything.
"In the United States, Pool Boy is called Deadpool. Pool Boy means….something else entirely."
Customer #2: “Hi. Do you have the all-in-one Sandman?”
Me: “The what?”
C#2: “Someone recommended The Sandman to me.”
Me: “It’s very good.”
C#2: “I want the all-in-one book. Not the expensive one. But the cheap all-in-one.”
I show him the various formats it’s in: the regular trade paperbacks. There’s ten of them. I show him the huge, beautiful hardcovers. It’s the whole collection in four volumes, but each volume is about $100.
C#2: “What about the fifty dollar one. It’s got the whole collection in it.”
Me: “I’ve never heard of that. Let me look it up online.” I check. As I suspected, it’s not a real thing. “Sorry. The Absolute Sandman is the most concise set of volumes.”
C#2: “What about a boxed set?”
Me: “That’s pretty much what those Absolutes I showed you are.”
C#2: “Can I buy them all?”
Me: “Of course.”
C#2: “But in one book?”
I am unsure if I am the one having problems with The English language this morning.
Wannabe Stand Up Comedian walks in and immediately launches into a routine that he’s clearly been practicing for several years.”Stilt Man. Am I right? He’s just a guy on stilts. He isn’t awesome. He’s just a guy on stilts. Know what I mean? His deal is, he can be tall. But not on his own. He needs stilts to do it. Because he’s Stilt Man. What kind of a name is Stilt Man anyway. I mean, so what? You’ve got stilts.”
This goes on for roughly seventeen years of my life.
He keeps asking me questions that no one in the history of comics has ever cared about. “What happens to Thunderbolt Ross’s mustache when he turns into Red Hulk.”
"It goes to the negative zone. It’s all explained in an issue of Fantastic Four. I don’t remember the number." I lie.
"Maybe that’s where Stilt Man gets his ideas from, am I right? The Negative Zone?"
I eventually was so worn down, he asked me a question about the X-Men and I told him I’d never heard of them. That I didn’t really read comics.
He wouldn’t leave, so I stopped speaking. I just glared at him every time he addressed me.
"Do you think they made The Hulk’s mustache disappear so that people wouldn’t be able to tell the two Hulks apart?"
At this point an actual customer shouts “THEY’RE TWO DIFFERENT COLORS. OH MY GOD, STOP TALKING ABOUT IT.”
Stilt Man’s nemesis gets real quiet, and leaves a couple of minutes later.
I’m about to thank the shouter when he says “What an idiot. Who cares about The Hulk’s mustache. So. Have you seen Wonder Woman makes out with Superman yet. That wouldn’t happen. She’s a total lesbo.”