Yes, I’d like to dye my hair rape van orange, please?
I finally got to my English portfolio. Half way done, maybe. Just retyping, editing, all the fun stuff. And by fun I mean ‘wow, I really don’t fucking want to do this at all!:]!!’ Anyway, I came across this story I wrote, and just rewrote, and it’s fairly entertaining, so I thought I’d post it.
Worst vacation ever. I mean I did a few pretty cool things this summer- got my license, hung out with friends a little, dyed my hair orange- but probably like 90% of my fellow seniors I spent the majority of my summer at work. City Music in Gardner. First of all, this place in down the street from two liquor stores. I’m sure imagining all the crazyass people that show up to knock over guitars and break everything all the time is not too difficult a task. Sometime in the middle of July, I was working a Saturday. Normally, these six hour shifts are boring and uneventful. This particular Saturday, not so much.
A guy comes in wearing one of those “Life is Good” T-shirts. I hate those. But, you can’t judge a book by its cover… or a crazy man by his hideous, ill-informed shirt. So, I asked how he was doin’, as I usually do when a customer walks in. Despite the shirt, he looked like an okay guy. Whatever, I didn’t give it too much more thought as he browsed our spectacular selection of musical items, After a few minutes he walks over to the register, dropping a pair of drumsticks and a tuning key there. I stood up from my terribly comfy chair to ring up his stuff.
“That comes to 10.32. Debit or credit? You want a bag for those, hey?” The usual schpeel. I ran his Visa through and waited for the machine to process. That thing’s painfully slow.
He broke the waiting silence with something I would never have expected anyone to say to me, no matter how drunk or insane, at the place I work.
“You’d look good in my van.”
You’d look good in my van?! What the hell does that mean?! And of course this creeper comes in on the one Saturday my boss isn’t working to bring him outside and beat the shit our of him.
I looked up at him, like, ‘Seriously, come on man, you didn’t just say that.”
After a very awkward (for me, at least… he probably liked it) moment, he pointed outside. I turned to the window to see a big, rusty orange hippie can parked in the closest spot.
“Your hair matches.” He added with a casual tone and a big smile, apparently unaware of his how much he just creeped me out.
I handed him his receipt, he left, and I was terribly sketched out for the rest of the day.
