Thank You For Patronizing

In previous posts, I've mentioned that I work in a thrift store operated by a non-profit organization. Since the store's proceeds go to providing health services and housing to people living with HIV and AIDS, one would be inclined to think that the support of such a noble cause, would garner courteous and benevolent customers.

Sadly, one would be terribly, terribly wrong...

A few examples of the customer's activities over the past few weeks include: two grown men engaging in a fistfight over U2 albums, which was curtailed by six police officers hauling them off in handcuffs, a middle-aged woman who became so irate when she was unable to haggle down the price of a six-dollar pocketbook, that she verbally assaulted the store manager for fifteen minutes, and the piece de resistance...a white woman accused me of racial profiling because I was casually chatting with a neighborhood police officer, whom she assumed I summoned, "because there were black women in the store, and I'm aryan".

Perhaps there is some science fiction based explanation for this behavior...the shop was built over an ancient Indian burial ground, or an alien life form hides in the doorway and turns mild-mannered folk into materialistic barbarians upon entry. And maybe the only way to prevent these cosmic creatures from controlling our brains is donning tin foil hats and ingesting red Skittles.

Although these scenarios sound ridiculous, kooky customer incidents occur at least twice a day, if not more frequently, which compels me to wonder if I have unknowingly entered The Twilight Zone...

There is a fifth dimension beyond that which is known to man. It is a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity, or between the hours of 11-7. It is the middle ground between vintage and slightly worn, between science and fashion, and it lies between the pit of man's fears and the Haagen Dazs next door. This is the dimension of plastic bric-a-brac and antique cloche hats. It is an area which we call the THE BROOKLYN THRIFT STORE...

Submitted for your approval, the three customers from Hell:

#3 Hipster Mommy

Currently residing in Park Slope, with her Creative Director husband and son Zeus Gatsby, her hobbies include quoting scripture, a.k.a Gwyneth Paltrow's website, dragging her emasculated husband away from his garage band jam-sessions for a four-hour excursion to Ikea on Sundays, and watching Jennifer Connolly films with her circle of Martyr Mom friends, or as they refer to themselves-"Mothership".

Pushing a Bugaboo stroller towards the register, mowing over all items or persons in her path, Hipster Mommy is an all-knowing entity. She doesn't feel the need to discipline lil' Zeusy, as that would be infringing on his "creative curiosity", even when he pulls a box of Christmas ornaments off of a shelf and watches them clamor to the floor, then toddles away.

She pays for her Belle and Sebastian CD, places it into her Trader Joe's canvas tote, and while her son is busy yanking a rack of skirts down from their hangers, she tells him it's time to go to class at Yoga Tots.

As they exit the store, her stroller topples a mannequin, but she continues on her way, content in her own world of self-satisfaction.

#2 The Stand-Up

Currently single and residing in Boerum Hill with his cat, Newman, The Stand Up's hobbies include being the third wheel with his married friends, masturbating, quoting Joey from Friends, masturbating while watching Friends, and perusing Match.com at his Finance job.

The Stand Up uses his special blend of comedy as an attempt to flirt with the female staff, whether he's doling out inane and unfunny observations about items in the store, "What's the deal with pink shirts for men, this isn't a golf course?" or suddenly finding comedic value in news stories that ceased to be relevant months prior, "So what's with Michael Jackson, he was like all into kids, right?".

Although I provide no encouragement or pity laughs to this bloke as he hurls his wanna-be witticisms in my direction, Stand Up never seems to conclude that his shtick is not endearing, no matter how many times I reply to his commentary with, "Sorry, we don't sell laugh tracks," or "please workshop your material at the Banana Republic down the street, sir, they're used to generic, tasteless garbage.

#1 Creepy Intense Guy

Current residence unknown, although ultimately his neighbors will describe him as "a clean and quiet guy who always kept to himself" once the authorities find a stash of human kneecaps and index fingers hidden under his floorboards.
Creepy Intense Guy's hobbies include leering, stalking, collecting human knee caps and index fingers, and watching Gilmore Girls reruns.

He's the clean-shaven, meticulously dressed male who stares at my every movement so fervently, it begs the question, "Can a woman become pregnant from eye rape?"
His attempts at small-talk are disturbing, and uttered in a spooky hushed tone, "I see you're drinking a coffee from the bakery, I also drink coffee from the bakery. We have a lot in common". And when he returns hours later, brandishing the same coffee cup in his hand, the interaction becomes even more bizarre, "When I saw you at the bakery, I noticed you added two sugars to your coffee, and stirred the coffee three times. You were talking to the cashier for a minute and twenty seconds, how well do you know him?"

Creepy Intense Guy elicits the use of a safety-word amongst the staff, which shall be used immediately should he express interest in the application of lotion onto skin or any activity involving a hose.

The previous list represents a mere sample of the neverending parade of psych-ward escapees and n'er do wells that frequent the store. Yes, there are friendly, nice people who visit the shop, but unfortunately, their good qualities are overshadowed by the staggering sense of entitlement and gross misconduct of the repeat offenders.
I'm no Polyanna, but my weariness and impatience grows daily, when I observe people who believe that whining, name-calling, and temper tantrums are not activities reserved exclusively for children in the schoolyard. I try to rationalize these poor attitudes as a "New York thing", and until I am ready to make a move to the Midwest, I can only speculate as to what the real answer may be.

In the meantime, I'll impart the words of wisdom passed down to me by an old woman in the shop a few days ago, "Jesus is coming, look busy".

Happy holidays!