The following story is true.
I was just leaving work. It was an average day. Nothing exciting about it. Nothing ever exciting happens at work. I left and made my way to clock out for the night. I walked by a large, bald man. He seemed agitated. He approaches me. Being the die-hard employee I am, I said hello to him. He extends his arm. At this moment, I cringe. I stood there for a moment, just staring at his arm. He wanted a handshake. There is a small part of me that will offer handshakes when needed but there is also a part of me that doesn’t want to catch whatever disease you’re carrying about. I have said if many times before. I am a germaphobe. I don’t like shaking hands. I think it is disgusting. I’d hit up a hooker before I shake someones hand. It could have been hours that I stood there, just eyeing his arm. His hand shook. He coughed and he glanced to his hand. Okay, okay. I will shake your hand. Don’t ask for anything else. I took a deep breath and counted backwards from three. My arm reached out and we grasped hands. He had a firm handshake. My handshake is weak. Sue me. I don’t have much practice in that field. I need to work on that. But really, how does someone who doesn’t shake hand work on that?
He shakes violently. My arm moves like jelly. The man smiles and looks at me while he continues this handshake that I wished would just end.
“Hi. You’re gonna die. You’re a giant dick with big ears.”
Wow. I’ve been called many things but that was probably the first time someone has ever called me that. I can’t disagree with him about the ear thing. I do have very, large ears (the better to hear you with my dear). But a giant dick? Really? I was not a dick. I was still wet behind the ears. I was just growing accustomed to the world around me. I was not aware of how awful the world was then. Now, if that man said that to me today, I would agree 100%. I am a dick. I am a heartless person that will take any situation, no matter what it is and twist it into something obscene. I laugh at everything. I take nothing seriously. Maybe it’s a coping mechanisms. I don’t know. I am not a doctor. I don’t poke and prod around and try to figure out why I try to make everything a joke. It’s just how I see the world. It’s one, big joke.
After the man paid me the compliment, I went on my merry way to clock out and head home to relax with a soda. It be a beer but I was underage at the time and I stick to the rules society handed us. I descended the stairs and the man was still lurking about, still searching out his next victim. A customer crossed his path. Again, he extended his arm but not for a shake. Instead, he slightly poked the man, giving his a firm thrust. The man, obviously shocked, stumbled backwards. He kept his balance. Like a momma bird, he shielded his young son behind him.
“You’re a [censored] Jew. I wanna kick your ass!”
Maybe I missed something. I saw no yarmulke (pronounced yamaka) on the man’s head. He wasn’t carrying around the Torah either. To continue with the Jewish stereotypes, his nose did not resemble a ski slope. How on Earth did the man come to the decision that the customer in front of him was a Jew? How ever he came to that idea, the Jew was not too happy with being called out. Hell if I were a Jew, I’d be pretty pissed too if someone pointed that out. Oy.
The Jew agreed to the fight and was ready to take the man outside. The young, Jewish boy begged his daddy not to fight. With those sad eyes looking up at him, he refrained from the parking lot fight and went back to shopping. He nudged by the man and made his way down aisle three – the kosher aisle. I sneak by the man, who was just standing there, looking at the Jew as he vanished further down aisle three. Without any warning, a lady I worked with that night grabbed me, cutting off the circulation to my upper body. She pointed at the crazy man, saying we need to go. She kept saying the man had a gun and was going to go postal on us all. We watched together as the man collected his thoughts and spotted the next target in his rampage.
He stood over a bunker of chicken. In this bunker of chicken, were vacuum-sealed boneless chicken breast. He picked up a package and examined it. Like a wild animal, he took a giant bite in the package. Saliva dripped from his mouth. A glimmering light, twinkled in eyes. It seemed satisfying to him, to taste the raw meat and the plastic that protected it. He grunts, and grrrs. Lifting the package in the air, he grabs it with both hands and holds in high in the air. He lowers it slowly, till it rests firmly on his bald head. Using his head as a pivot, and his arms like pulleys, he moves the package up and down. He moves it left and right, screaming loudly,
“I’m weird! I’m weird!”
Really? No shit, Sherlock. The story doesn’t end there. Oh no. It gets better. Much, much better. He flings the package back in the case. At this time, the Jewish man had told managers up front about the crazy man in aisle one. With managers running to put his evil shenanigans to a stop, he had vanished. He had escaped somewhere in the store. The lady and I look at each other. We feel safe. This was our time to get the hell out. I would have left but I needed groceries. I go the checkout to buy some crap. A customer in front of me is talking about the man. He spotted him lurching around the aisles, not really doing much. He said he was acting weird. I was shooed and coaxed into calling the police. I scurried back to my department and dialed, 9-1-1. The last time I dialed that number was by mistake. We were playing some sort of movie or something at home. I don’t know. Anyway, I thought the phone was unplugged. I thought it was okay to dial the number. Sure I could have pretended to dial it but I needed it to look real. After I dialed it, I hang up the phone and we continue doing it what we were doing. The phone rings. Sure enough, it was the police. After explaining about what I did, I get an earful and am told that 9-1-1 isn’t a toy.
Where was I? Oh, I dialed 9-1-1. The lady was a bitch to me. Instead of taking the time to thank me for my heroic efforts to put an end to this crazy night, she yells at me and tells
me that they already have people on the way. You know, I bet it was the same operator. I bet she recognized my voice. That whore. Screw her. I rush back to the front of the store. I really don’t want to miss anything. I wanna see the cops come in, guns drawn. I wanna see a John Woo movie unfold before my eyes. Well, not a full John Woo movie. You can leave out the birds. I hate birds now.
The man is heading towards the doors. It looks like he is leaving. A manager steps in front of him and lets him know that he isn’t leaving on foot. He’ll be leaving in a squad car. While he deduction of the Jewish guy is still spotty to this day, he didn’t need much to guess that the manager in front of him is a black man. Like before with the Jew, he shakes his finger at the manager and jabs him with it.
“I own you! I own you, boy!”
Poor Abe. I bet Mr. Lincoln was rolling in his grave when he heard that. Guess his whole, Emancipation Proclamation was all a waste. I wondered at that moment if that man had a confederate flag on the top of his car like the good ole, Duke Boys. After the word slave was tossed around more times than the actual number of slaves, the man took an opportunity to relax on the ground. He laid there, arms and legs stretched out. It had been a long day for him. He called me a giant dick with big ears, called out a Jew, ate raw chicken, and brought back slavery. With no time for a twix bar, he took to the floor and relaxed. But, oh no. He wasn’t relaxing. He was prepping for the final act in his show. An act that will make everything seem tame. With gibberish pouring from his mouth, he takes his right arm from the floor and with one, swift motion, he unzips his fly. There, he removes his member and spins it around like a helicopter. It just waving about, flapping around like a limp piece of meat. And after a few flaps, he put his member back inside his pants and stands up. He takes a bow and tips a non-existent hats to us. He exits stage left but is confronted by officers. It was out of my view and pretty much, everybody else but the scuffle and the screaming, echoed about the doors and into the store.
The story made the paper. It says that during the scuffle with police, the man reached for one of the officer’s gun before he was subdued with pepper spray.
pitweston
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