I work at a store called Mervyn's in Ventura, California -- home to one of the worst poo stories you will ever hear. I was nearing the end of my Saturday shift, ready to go home and take a nap. But this hope proved to be short-lived. You see, many years ago my co-worker Jamie was forced to clean up poop in the dressing room. Since this long-ago occasion, whenever someone poops in the store Jamie will announce "Déjà vu!" over the loudspeaker. That is her warning signal -- her sad attempt to save her friends from the fate that befell her. Everyone knew that when they heard the code word it was time to run!
Everyone, that is, except for me. I was new, and no one had told me their horrific stories. I had yet to hear the tales about cleaning up poop and the effects of its aftermath: the poop smell in one's hair, and the brown caked underneath one's fingernails. Which meant I was about to live the experience firsthand.
An old lady entered the store looking scared and frantic, like she was having an emergency. Jamie knew the look on the old woman's face; she had seen it before. The woman had to poop, and from her expression it appeared to be urgent. Fearing the worst, Jamie ran to the speaker and in a sullen voice said, "Code red. Déjà vu!"
Everyone scattered.
I remember wondering why everyone was running. I thought perhaps we were being robbed. But I stayed at my station and waited for news.
Then I saw a terrible sight -- almost like a nightmare in slow motion. I saw my coworkers screaming and running around in a panic. I saw the old lady, still scared, searching for the restroom, while a brown liquid seeped down her leg. And then, after noticing the newfound coloring in her pants, the lady started running all around the store and finally up the escalator, leaving a circular trail of slime throughout the store. After a few moments of running around, the embarrassed old lady finally ran out of the store.
By now all the workers were safely out of sight -- which meant I was left to fend for myself.
My boss emerged from her office. Her first words were, "Déjà vu? Where is the poo?"
I had no clue what she was talking about, until she handed me a mop, a scrub brush, and some soap -- but no gloves.
By the time I finished, I looked terrible. I had poo under my fingernails and in my hair from leaning too close to as I scrubbed.
I will never forget that day. I just wanted to go home and take a well-deserved nap, but instead I cleaned up old lady poop.
