Mountain View

Ah, Mountain View. When the manager of the store called me this morning and asked if I could fill in a gap for a few hours in the early evening, I admit my face twisted into a grimace of mixed revulsion and apprehension. I'm a 25 year old, attractive (that's not narcissism, I've got confirmed sources who will tell you the same thing) white female, and the M.V. store has a notorious reputation for the most besotted and repugnant clientele. Having really no excuse to not take the shift, I agreed and begrudgingly put down my book.

"Don't put your purse on the floor," advised the assistant manager when I arrived. "We've got a bit of a problem with this shrew." No sooner had she finished her sentence than the shrew appeared from under the desk, boldly taking a crumpled receipt in its mouth and meandering back into its lair. Great. Drunks and vermin. And it's not even 5pm.

My feeling of general unease was not unfounded. I spent four hours politely declining date offers, politely asking the same guy three times to stop lifting his shirt to show me his "chiseled abs" ("I love your hair," he declared. "You've got that sexy Asian thing going for you. That's hot.") and not-so-politely declining the sale of fifths of Monarch vodka in the plastic bottle to the swaying, incomprehensible sea of humanity that flowed in and out of the store like so much flotsam. Or perhaps jetsam, it's really difficult to tell when you're temporarily blind-sided by the fog of cheap beer and dollar shots of rum that don't make it out of the parking lot.

"What? I'm some sort of bad guy?" asked a belligerent, drunken man when I seized his precious booze.
"No, sir. But you can't produce valid ID for me, I can tell you've been drinking, and I cannot legally or ethically sell you alcohol today. You can feel free to come back tomorrow and try to buy that bottle of R&R with a dizzying array of dimes, nickles, and pennies - all of which smell suspiciously like you've stored them in your last bottle of R&R after you drank the lot of it in a single day."
I didn't say that last part out loud.
Unfortunately.
"I'm the bad guy now? I'm some sort of bad guy?" My cheery demeanor disappeared. Time to, as they teach in the TIPS class, assert my authority and take control of the situation.
"It's time for you to leave, sir. You can come back tomorrow but if I see you on the premises again tonight I will have to call APD."
"So I am a bad guy to you, huh?"
"Not unless you do as I've asked and you leave my store immediately. I won't ask you again. You can leave now and there's no harm done, or you can continue to harass me and I'll have you arrested for trespassing and you won't be welcome in any of our stores ever again. The choice is yours."
"Damn. That's coldhearted."

But it worked. The threat of being permanently 86'd from a chain of liquor stores struck fear into his heart and he left, defeated. Triumphant, I returned to the queue of eager customers only to start the process over again.

"Here's my ID. Can you answer a question for me? Do you have 40s of *insert unfamiliar name here*?" She looked barely 21, but her ID was in order and the UV light confirmed that it is authentic.
"Nope, if it's not in the cooler, it's not here."
"Okay, thanks." She stuffed the wad of abused dollars into her pocket and walked out of the store. Minutes later, she reappeared at my counter with a 40 of Miller High Life (you know, the champagne of beers).
"Here's my ID again, even though you just saw it." Her manner was agitated, and my gut told me something wasn't right.
"You were just in here, where did you go when you left?"
"Just....outside...."
"Are you buying this for someone outside in the parking lot?"
"Uhm...why?"
"Because if you're buying for someone underage, or someone who is already drunk, that's illegal and you could be arrested." Not to mention that I would lose my job, get sued by the company that fired me, and be fined by the state. Not on my list of things to do, honestly.
"Oh, they're not drunk. They're just....drinking." Really? Seriously? Are you that dense, you pretty, young thing? How exactly do you stand to benefit by purchasing a 40 ounce bottle of terrible malt liquor for strangers who leer at people like yourself in the parking lot as though leering was quickly going out of vogue?
Taking the 40 from her and putting it on a shelf beneath my register, I told her politely to leave the store, because I wasn't selling her anything. She actually looked bewildered as she left, as though the explanation I gave her in slow, carefully metered words - "You could get arrested" - wasn't enough.

Depravity and debauchery and sleaze. I'm swimming in an endless sea of it.