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 My BookstorePosted 01.03.2006 by SamDamnit (1192)
I worked at a large independent bookstore for three years. I moved my way up the ladder fairly quickly, starting as a book seller/cashier and working my way up to store manager. The difference in pay was nominal, but the difference in responsibility was enormous. Two of the things that I had to deal with as manager were security and facilities. These turned out to be the most stressful and loathsome of duties.
It was a two-story bookstore, bigger than most Barnes and Nobles. We had every kind of whack job, extremist, fetishist, and criminal coming in to the store. It was a fulltime job just to keep up with them. We had an off duty cop who would hang out at the front and hit on the hippie chicks that worked there, but he did not do any thing proactive. It was left up to me to watch for thieves, masturbators, vandals, and defecators. Yep. Defecators. I was using the term "turd terrorist" long before I ever saw PoopReport. We had all kinds of terrorists coming in to the store. As you can imagine, the naughty magazines and erotic picture books were often found with sticky pages. The Klan would come in and put recruitment cards in the books that they thought like-minded people would read. They usually hit The Turner Diaries, Mein Kampf, and the skinhead books. They were not too bright, though -- I found their cards in Confederates in the Attic and Confederacy of Dunces (which I thought was fairly appropriate). The religious section (we called it "the woo woo section") got hit hard and often. We found pages torn out, sputum, jizm, and defecation. People really, really liked to poop on the Bible or The Satanic Bible. There was practically a poop war going on -- one that involved some people with serious issues. The Celestine Prophecies also got a lot of attention. I can almost understand that one. The turd terrorists almost always used the same M.O.: they would some how get the book into the bathroom, either sneaking it past a magnetic strip scanner or finding and removing that magnetic strip. They also had to avoid the not-so-wary eye of the nearby bookseller, who was usually busy fiddling with his or her septum ring. Once inside they would drop their trousers or pull up their skirts, open the book, and let loose. They usually just left the book on the floor, but we would sometimes find them in the toilet, on the counter, stuck to the wall or, once, stuck to the ceiling. I assume that they opened the book to a specific page about which they wanted to make a statement, but I could never bring myself to look that closely. Oddly enough, I never saw any wet, messy poo on the books. I mean, it was messy by definition -- but it wasn't scattered, spattered, or spritzed about. These turd terrorists had some pretty tidy poops. I often wondered if perhaps they did not actually perform the act in the bathroom. Maybe they did all their pooping at home, waiting for a poop that they thought would make just the right statement. They could then skip over to the nearest bookstore, Ziploc baggy or Pringles can held tightly in their sweaty little hands. Every once in a while I would be shown a book that was defiled and placed back on the shelves, or left in a chair amongst the esoterica. I remember slipping on a little turd nugget at one point. I thought it must be another turd terrorist attack, but looking up I saw a toddler waddling along, dropping more little turd bomblettes out of his baggy diaper. You might think of that as the grossest part of my job. You would be wrong. The nastiest poopers were the customers who used the stalls in the ladies bathroom. I didn't know why this was the case. It just was. We had a cleaning crew of two. They showed up at about three in the afternoon and worked until closing time. Before three, I was the troubleshooter for any problems in the bathrooms. I would have at least two calls a day to go inspect some abomination in the ladies room. They usually involved a clogged toilet and the sight of some ghastly expulsions in, on, and around the bowl. I learned to wear a surgical mask over my face and to take deep breaths before I entered the room. The employees would see me coming with that mask and some gloves, and start laughing at my sorry fate. Little did they know that I could have told them to do it -- I would have been perfectly within my rights. But I was not that kind of manager. I knew they made less money than I did, and it was not enough for them to have to deal with such vile things. I used to wonder how a person could actually spray feces all over the bowl, the lid, the floor, and the walls. It really stumped me. I figured they must have to stand on the bowl and rotate around, aiming at every thing in sight. Reading PoopReport, I have come to learn of such things as people hovering over the seat, people losing it as they bend over, and people with explosive diarrhea. Thanks, PoopReporters. Here is my advice to you: if you ever apply to work at a bookstore, beware of the words "security" and "facilities" in the job description. Post new comment
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