Kevin Smith, �Clerks � The Comic Book�
The mix of dates as I import older and newer reviews is just getting too complicated. And though I know most newer readers stated that they would prefer if I staggered reviews, I�ve decided that I�m going to be uploading like fuck for the next three weeks, until this site is current and up to date.
I was against doing this at first, thinking that it would be too easy for newer readers to get overwhelmed and lost. Plus, there are things that happen in chronological order, and believe it or not, there are some entries that I�m proud of, and want people to actually read. But there�s just too much of everything going on right now, and the mix between older and newer reviews makes it seem like I�m close to a psychotic break.
Which I am, but that�s beside the point.
Kidding. But a lot of what comes over the next few months will be Ex-Girlfriend related, and that�s all stuff from the past. Lately we�ve been too willing to jump down each other�s throats with little provocation, which I don�t want.
So the goal is this. I�m going to try upload at least five older reviews every day until this is current. No, I don�t expect you to sit and read them all. Perhaps I�ll use the �favorite entries� option in my profile, a spot that is typically saved for favorite entries by other people, and promote certain ones that I think you should read. We�ll see. In the meantime, expect this site to be very busy for about a month.
As for this book, and all things �Clerks� related, one of the things that make it so popular is that most people have to work retail at least once in their lives, and they hardly forget it. We�ve all seen the incredibly stupid questions. The freak customers. The minor annoyances that always seems to come in waves.
But I�ve been at this job for five years now, and some of these escapades with the Wretched of the Earth that pose as a customer base in this book and indeed, the film, are small time. I can deal with the person who want�s to take out $6.73 out of the �take a penny, leave a penny� jar. Hell, it was just last week that I made a deaf guy put all the change back, after he scooped the entire contents and put it in his pocket.
No, I�ve dealt with much worse.
I have two perfect examples from just two weeks ago. The first came on a Sunday, the only day that we don�t buy books from the general public. I work alone on this day, and use the time to try and price and put away the massive backlog of stuff that we bought over the past six days. It�s not uncommon however, for somebody to walk obliviously past the sign on the front door that states when we purchase books, and set their stuff on the counter, next to the other sign that specifically states �No buying or trading on Sunday.�
So, a guy comes in, only he can�t put his books down on the table, as I�ve filled it with things that need a price tag slapped onto the covers. He stands, holding an armload of books, looking expectantly. I tell him, sorry, we don�t buy books on Sunday.
�Aww, man, I�m a regular.�
�If you were a regular than I shouldn�t have to tell you that we don�t buy books on Sunday. You want cash, right? I can�t even get any cash out of the drawer on Sunday.�
�The other guy would do it for me.�
�Well, he�s not here. He�s also the owner, so he can make that kind of executive decision. I�m not the owner, so I can�t.�
�Can you call him?�
I go back to pricing. He still stands there occasionally trying to get me to change my mind. Technically, I could do a buy if it was something worth getting. I can see what he�s holding � it�s not worth making an exception for. Plus, I�m in a bad mood, since The Girlfriend and I had just broken up two days previous. I tell him no again.
He wanders the store for a bit, then returns and asks again. I don�t even answer him this time. Meanwhile, the front door opens again.
Sometimes, before a person even walks in, you know it�s going to be a bad experience. This is one of those times.
His girlfriend walks in, and she�s obviously cracked out of her mind. She stumbles in, nearly shouting for her boyfriend. She�s wearing a belly shirt, which is appropriate, as she definitely has a belly. The rest of her is rail-thin, and looking like its had all the life, along with sinew and muscle, sucked out of her by amphetamines. Then she sees a copy of Bill Clinton�s biography, picks it up, and hollers to me.
�Hey, it�s my birfday, kin I have this?�
�It�s my birthday too,� I say. �What�d you get me?�
�Nuttin�.�
�Okay then.�
She then spots another biography, this one on JFK, near the floor. She bends down to get a better look at it.
And her pants fall down around her ankles.
And she�s not wearing anything underneath them.
Stranger still, she doesn�t bother to hitch them back up.
She�s crouched by the front door, her pants around her feet, making me remember when I was locked out of my house when I was ten years old, and having to jump the backyard fence to take a crap in the backyard because I couldn�t hold it any longer. I�m very afraid she�s going to do the same thing.
Finally, she stands up and starts walking toward me. The fact that her feet don�t move smoothly, being as her pants are still around her ankles, finally makes her take notice of her lack-of-pants problem. She reaches down and hoists them up with one motion. They only go about halfway over her waist.
I�m sitting on a stool and the desk and she walks up to me. I can see three-fourths of her pubic hair, which is now one foot directly away from my face. I turn and decide to look out the window. I don�t know what else to do. We don�t have an employee handbook, but I�m pretty sure that if we did have one, it wouldn�t cover crack addicts shoving their pubic hair in your face while trying to negotiate the price of a book.
She asks me to put the book on hold for her which allows me to get up and walk away. This is good, because I�m not sure how saying, �Pardon me madam, would you mind removing your bush from my face?� would go over.
Another customer, who was fortunate enough to have missed the public nudity, gives them ten dollars for their books and they leave the store. I don�t know if he�s doing it to help them, or to help me. In any case, thank you.
Just a few days before that, we had The Talking Lady come in. Talking Lady, a short, thin woman about 45 years-old, comes in a lot and the employees will try to shelve book near her area just so we can listen to her talk to the voices in her head. She obviously doesn�t get along with these voices and frequently has arguments with them, of which we can only hear one side.
But she�s quiet and she doesn�t harass the other customers, so we leave her alone. But I have found that if she�s in the store when it�s near closing time, you have to be persistent and firm in order to get her to leave. With five minutes to go before we closed, I told her that we would be closing soon. She said okay. I went back to the front desk.
Ten minutes later, I went back. She was still in the same spot.
�I�m sorry, you�ll really have to go,� I said. �We closed five minutes ago, and I need to lock up.�
�Oh, okay, but do you have any books on television shows?�
She�s done this to me before. In fact, the first time I met her, before I knew she was crazy, she kept me 40 minutes past closing time showing her different sections. I wasn�t going to do that today.
�Yes, but I�m afraid you can�t see it right now, as we closed five minutes ago.� I start herding her toward the front door. She stops and picks up a book in the military section.
�Do you have more books like this one,� she looks at the cover, inspecting the title. �Books on... World War II?�
�We have lots of books on World War II, which you can look at tomorrow, but I�m afraid you�ll have to go now.�
�No! No! NO! I don�t have to go, because, because, because you�re not John Lennon, and I am THE ONE!�
I look at her for a second. �Okay, now you really have to go.�
I herd her toward the door, handing her the big garbage bag she dropped off when she came in. She continues talking, nearly yelling now.
�You don�t close at nine, you�re a liar, and I know why you�re lying! I saw you! You�re doing that child sex slave ring in here, and that�s why you want me to leave!�
�What the hell are you talking about?� I say.
�How can you do that to children? You�re terrible! You�re a fucking asshole! I�m gonna call the cops and they�re gonna put you in jail!� she stops in mid-rant and mid-walk, looking confused. �Wait,� she says, �is this San Jose or Palo Alto?�
We�re in San Jose, and this woman has lost her mind. My snarky side can�t help myself. �You�re in Palo Alto,� I say.
�NO WE�RE NOT, WE�RE IN SAN JOSE, AND THAT PROVES THAT YOU�RE A LIAR!!!�
Holy fuck! An insane woman has just outsmarted me!
I finally shepherd her to the front door, and she screams one more time how she�s going to kill me. Then she turns and raises both her fists, crashing them down on my chest.
I look at my chest and then at her, total bewilderment on my face. This woman, who probably isn�t taller than 5�3� just punched me? I look back at her.
�Okay, now you can�t come back,� I say.
�I OWN THIS FUCKING PLACE!�
I close the door behind her and she picks up her garbage bag and flings it against the glass. The bag shatters with the impact, and the contents spill all over the street. It�s exactly the kind of things you think people like this carry with them. Cut-outs of various people from magazines, a broken half of a baby toy designed for motor skill improvement, plastic bottles half full of unidentifiable liquids. I walk back toward the counter as she starts to collect her treasures, feeling both annoyed and sad at the entire situation, wondering whom we�re now going to listen to for entertainment purposes.
And you know what? Neither of these stories is the best example of the horrors of retail. But I�ll save that for some other time.
And then (as if this entry weren�t long enough � anybody still actually reading?) of course, there are the clerks themselves. I get a lot of complements, but I�ve had my share of run-ins with people. I too, have lapsed into the surly, snotty clerk upon occasion, though it doesn�t happen that often. Or at least I�d like to think so.
Yesterday, feeling particularly miserable about the breakup, made worse that Arlette hadn�t called in over a week and a half, I got tired of giving the generic, �fine, thanks� response whenever anybody asked me how I was doing. I altered my answer.
�How you doing?� one guy asked as he entered.
�Pretty terrible, actually.�
He stopped and looked at me. �Really?� he said.
�Yup.�
�Wanna talk about it?�
�No thanks, I just got tired of saying fine, when I�m not fine. It felt too much like I was lying.�
But the generic response serves its purpose, for after telling at least ten people that I was terrible, I actually started to feel worse. Around 6 p.m., I needed to call the boss, and for the second time in a week, my fingers automatically punched in The Ex-Girlfriend's number.
I�m never using the phone again. No wait, it�s because I never actually call anybody. I need some more phone numbers, so I can break this habit.
Unlike last time when she answered before I knew I had misdialed, I let out a small yelp as the phone was starting to ring and quickly hung up. With shaking fingers, I dialed my boss.
�I just accidentally called The Ex-Girlfriend again when I was trying to call you,� I said when he answered. �So, if you don�t mind, I�m going to talk to you for the next hour and a half, until it�s time to go home.�
�Sorry buddy, I�m in the middle of something.�
�Do I have to answer the phone?�
�Yes, you have to answer the phone.�
�Can I answer it in a high falsetto voice like Monty Python when they�re pretending to be women, and pretend that I�m not here?�
He thought about it for a minute. �Okay,� he said. �I guess that�s okay.�
It was about twenty minutes when she called me back. At first we talked openly, but I was feeling worse about the situation as we talked. I finally had to excuse myself.
�I�m sorry, chicken,� she said as I hung up.
After the store closed, I called her back. �This time I actually meant to call you,� I said when she answered. �I was just wondering, if you go to your magazine meeting tonight, could you stop by my house and just give me a hug?�
�I don�t think I�m going to the meeting,� she said. �But how about I come over when I�m finished with my homework?�
She did. Today, at work, I�ve been telling everybody who asked that I was fine.
This time, I meant it.
