Where’s My Community Service Plaque?

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Dare to begin! —Horace

    A friend wrote about my little ID card tet a teat:

    “The age is 35, If you don’t look at least 35 it is the sellers job to ask for ID, That’s the law, it’s not discrimination. Your boss can get in trouble if he tries to stop you for asking for ID.”

My response:

    “Well, the most important thing is that I can catch a $200 ticket if I get caught selling a minor cancer sticks. There are cops out there who cannot sleep well until everyone in this neighborhood has a police arrest record. Convictions don’t matter. Just arrests. The cops just want everybody in the system.

    The reason I thought to write about this woman tonight was that one of the other clerks told me today that a customer matching her description came in early this morning, got pissed at being asked for ID and threw a bunch of sunflower seed packets at his head. I’ll bet it’s the same demented woman.

    I’m not the only clerk to yell back at belligerent customers, but I’m the only one who tells them not to come back.

    And I’m the only one who tells them that with all that cellulite they’re packing in their trunks, they probably shouldn’t be buying that 40-ouncer anyway, which is one of the reasons why the manager likes to keep me in the cooler (besides the fact that inventory loss and spoilage is way down since I was put in charge of that locked freezer–I keep a tight reign over the various beverage vendors and keep the stock properly rotated).

    I had some dipwad bastard tell me once he was going to have me fired.

    "Good," I said, "That’ll give me more time to drive around the neighborhood and find out where you live."

    Most of the customers like me, though, partially because before I was hired at the Arco, they had to weave their way through a plethora of intimidating beggars to get their gas. I stopped that crap. Ran the creeps off. There’s a right way and a wrong way to beg.

    You know, now that I think about it, I ought to get some sort of community service award. I ran the drug dealers out of the Motel Marquis parking lot, the drunks from drinking beer in the front of the motel, the hoes from doing business in customer’s cars parked in the back of the Arco, the beggars from the gas pumps, the crack heads from sucking their pipes in the vacant lot and the winos from making their messes at the station and motel dumpsters.

    I even put the neighborhood muggers on notice that some of us victims fight back. Oh, and I stopped the streetwalkers from using the motel courtyard as a toilet.

    Where’s my plaque?

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