Chassis Albuquerque

2019

The Short Skirt & Other Problems

Short skirts have a way of making a man's mind wander. Short skirts are every where. He went to work and there were short skirts. He went to lunch and there were short skirts. He came home and there was incredibly sexy, but emotionally aloof, Bobbi-Jean - in a short skirt.
Directly, indirectly, probably, the short skirt was responsible for so much already - wars, love affairs, famine, horrific art. And, as already mentioned, short skirts were every where...! Basically, this meant trouble, with a capital "T". And that's the last thing any guy needs: Trouble.

Lurid, uncompromising and hilarious, packed with literary lowlife misadventures comes "The Very Short Skirt & Other Problems" - Gritty, Funny - Definitely Different, "The Very Short Skirt & Other Problems" Is A Good, Old-Fashioned Funny Story Of Poverty, Love, Madness And Desperation...!

Or Read Below...

The Short Skirt & Other Problems

CHAPTER .1.

​Downtown Tokyo, New York: Even in hell you can find happiness.
If you know where to look.
And that’s where I was: Hell.
Actually, I was scratching my balls and looking out the only window of my absurdly cramped, overpriced one bedroom apartment - there are two guys out there in the street fighting over a parking space. A woman pulled up on her little scooter and parked it in the space and then walked across the road to our building. The two guys don't know what to do so are leaving. They climb back into their beat-up cars and drive away in opposite directions. The woman took her helmet off - thick, beautiful blond hair tumbled out of the helmet and around her young shoulders.
She looked up and saw me at my window.
I waved.
And using a series of flags to further communicate with her, I let her know I was available.
And could also offer drinks or a choice of other light refreshments, if she wished.
I also bust out a series of very current, intricate hip-hop moves so that she knew I was: 1) Serious, 2) Still young at heart and 3) Would be okay in a club environment.
She signaled to me that we should meet.
I was pleased, I’d never had any one respond so well to flags before.
Or so quickly.
We meet outside - where I was robbed by her and two accomplices…
Really, it was just a little cash and a box of condoms.
No big deal.
But then they mocked my dance moves, too.
“Really, ladies, that’s taking things too far,” I said.
“So long, sucka,” the blond said.
She jumped back on her scooter and sped off; I didn’t see what happened to the other two - I think they may live in the building.
I called the police and when they saw my dance moves, they laughed, too.
What can I tell you.
Life's a grueling machine, you put something in one end and it comes out all fucked up the other end.
"You fucking people have got to be more fucking sensitive," I said to the police, hinting at the possibility of taking legal action. Yeah, if I wasn't so massively insecure I'd really do something about it. Instead, I started singing and making jokes you may already be familiar with.
They gave me a form to complete if I wished to complain any further about them and they drove off, too.
However, the entire incident did serve up an experience on how not to dance so: BE WARNED.
And right at that moment, as the police were driving off still laughing between themselves, the blond on her little scooter zipped past going the other way. She beeped! her horn and waved. Women, biologically women were always against me and always seemed to play a part in my downfall. It seemed somehow organic and quite natural. There was little use contemplating why or how. Hell, this was a system that had been implemented and hadn’t changed for thousands of years.
You couldn’t fight it. And if you did, proven fact, you’d lose.
Unrelated, I was still standing outside considering my life when I saw a woman shouting at her son that: He would grow up, he would go to school and he would go out into the world and find a job - if the economy held.
He was maybe 3 years old.
“What if I don’t want a job,” the boy sobbed.
“We can see what daddy says about that,” his mother said.
“Fuck what daddy says,” the little boy said.
“Hmmm. I’m almost inclined to agree with you,” the mother said.
A man was coming out our building. He had a puppy on a leash. A woman entering the building stopped to talk to him. She was wearing a short skirt.
A very short skirt.
"What a cute little puppy! Does he have a name…?" she asked.
She was down on one knee and the puppy licked her face.
"Shitface," the man said.
“Shitface? That’s funny! Hello little shitface…!” she said.
“He likes to lick his own asshole,” the man said and the woman immediately grimaced and pushed Shitface away.
“Ugh…!” she said, wiping her face.
This was true, I’d often seen the man. He’d take the little guy off the leash so he could do his business on the communal lawn outside. The dog would take a shit, then lick his ass. The man would go nuts and run at the little dog yelling: “Shitface…! Shitface…! Stop licking your asshole…!”
As the woman walked hurriedly past me I said: “Morning, Bobbi-Jean.”
Bobbi-Jean ignored me.
There’d been an incident. I'd managed to spend an impossibly inordinate amount of time hanging around one of the building’s communal female toilets.
Before someone raised the alarm and drew the attention of the building superintendent, Ethel Sackball.
"What you doing here, hanging round these toilets like this, Broadway…?" Sackball demanded.
She pushed her glasses back up from her nose. Her hair was tied tight in some kind of bun.
"Honestly? I'm hoping to get lucky…!”
“What…!” Sackball screeched.
“Jesus, lady, relax a little! I didn’t mean with you. It’s just a little toilet humor. Besides, guys toilets are locked on my floor and I don’t have a key for any of the others,” I explained.
Sackball didn’t care.
She found my “local” toilet humor unsuitable and told me to move my ass on.
Turns out “Bobbi-Jean” had reported me to Sackball, saying there was a “…suspicious, unemployed-looking man lingering around the female toilets.”
I watched Bobbi-Jean go into the building. She was wiping her face with what looked like a baby’s wet wipe. Still, she was very classy and her very short skirt hugged tight around her little ass.
“Goodbye, Bobbi-Jean,” I said.
Short skirts have a way of making a man's mind wander.
This is different from to "wonder", meaning to question how much longer a man was going to continue being stupid, wandering all over town chasing this short skirt, wondering if she was ever going to give it up to him.
I thought: Goddamn! was I tired of this woman and her very short skirts…!
Short skirts were every where.
I went to work and there were short skirts.
I went to lunch and there were short skirts.
I came home and there was Bobbi-Jean in a short skirt.
Directly, indirectly, probably, the short skirt was responsible for so much already - wars, love affairs, famine, horrific art. And these short skirts were every where - what in Satan's name was gong on here…?
The dog whined when he saw me.
I could tell, he’d the size of me. It really says something about a man when even an animal that licks its own asshole has sympathy for him.
It was a Monday.
Every new day's another gravestone staring at us, waiting.
I thought: Fuck you, Monday.
And all the rest of you days.
And I had to get to work.
I had a train to catch and I was already late.

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CHAPTER .2.

Even though I was running late, I still made it to work on time.
That’s the difference between being responsible and not.
As with most people my age, youth had left me brain damaged. Mild brain injuries - very pleasant sounding medically - had left me somehow incapacitated. Work, any work, I'm dead against it. You see those successful people on the TV - well, imagine the work that must go into it…!
So I didn’t want to work.
But I had to.
And it was a routine I was still struggling to get to grips with.
There’s a certain freedom, a certain stupidity only accounted for by being 18.
Problem was, I was 38. And the last time I checked I'd been living recklessly for about 20 years already. In fact, I'd hit a low point as a man in round about 2002 I think it was and, if I remembered correctly, now let’s see, what had happened in 2002…?
Thinking about it, I couldn’t remember what had happened in 2002.
But, looking back, mostly strategic in nature, a lot of my life has consisted of often running away.
And always somehow mostly uphill.
Anyway, whatever had happened in 2002, it couldn’t have been any different from than where I was now: Nowhere. I was at BEAUMONT’S, the piano store, where I’d been for 11 months as a salesman. How'd I get this gig? Same as the last one, the owner was a crooked tyrant. He’d also told me I had no value and was “dispensable”.
“Everyone could be let go anytime, so don’t go getting any ideas, Broadway. I run a pretty tight ship here,” he’d said at the interview.
“I appreciate your candor,” I’d said.
BEAUMONT’S had been around since 1889 and had anywhere between 70 - 100 pianos; mostly German, mostly absurdly expensive and overpriced. BEAUMONT’S made a big deal out of the fact they didn’t sell any Chinese or Asian pianos. And it was funny, people frowned on these pianos, but that’s where the largest section of the market was: Goddamn Chinese, Asian pianos. Like a lot of the cheaper, immigrant workforce, the Chinese labor force were less expensive, hard-wearing and did the job well. Weirdly, apparently the only people not buying Chinese were often the Chinese.
Customers would visit BEAUMONT’S and say - and they always sounded supercilious - things like: “I’m looking for something European - German…? With a German touch, with a German sound and feel…? Maybe you have something Austrian? With a German touch, with a German sound and feel…?”
“Did you have a budget in mind…?” a salesperson might wonder, if they even bothered to get up.
This the customer dismissed, outright - always, and without fail.
Most of the time.
As long as they were shown “something” with the “… right feel, sound and touch,”, the “… budget is flexible and entirely unimportant,” they’d claim
So we’d show them the cheapest “Austrian” upright piano built in Germany, with German touch and German sound and feel and the customer, in virtually every instance, would run a mile.
“$30,000…! Are you outta your mind! I want a piano, not a piano made of gold! What kind of a store is this! I ask for a German piano, or maybe an Austrian piano with German touch, sound and feel and you try sell me the most expensive piano in the store..! It’s not even a grand piano…!”
“You’re absolutely correct. Very good, sir. I can confirm that it is an upright piano. Of course, if you’d mentioned you were so price sensitive when you told us the budget was unimportant, irrelevant and had absolutely, categorically, no influence on your purchase today, I wouldn’t have bothered to get up, come all the way over here and waste my time showing you our least expensive Austrian piano that’s made in Germany. Unfortunately, we don’t have any Chinese or Asian pianos. Frankly, it’s not our market.”
“You refusing to help me…?” they’d say, outraged.
“Absolutely not, sir. I am, however, very clearly saying we do not cater for price-points below this amount - $30,000. Still, in the interest of maintaining customer relations and to try be of some help to you, I would point you in the direction of The Big Piano Warehouse Discount Store? They have a wonderful, far wider selection available for customers who also don’t have a budget.”
“German pianos…?”
“Could be, sir.”
“Austrian…?”
“Who knows, who knows - it truly is a mystery…”
There was just something about retailing pianos that wound customers and sales people up the wrong way.
The customers were vexatious.
And dishonest.
And insane.
In a recent survey, 75% of all piano sales people interviewed said they believed almost every customer was a total a-hole. The other 25% of sales people, after a further survey, turned out to be crazy and were fired.
The survey background? Because of the massive online presence, the nature of retail piano sales had changed and I asked two of my colleagues if they thought the retail piano sector was these days often the victim of the customers.
One agreed wholeheartedly the customers were all assholes.
The other disagreed.
So we fired him. Better to have a united team and sharing the same vision.
And now here I was, facing Dr. Peter Beaumont of BEAUMONT’S pianos.

CHAPTER .3.

The Beaumont family had money, lots of it.
Money is a funny thing. Funny if you got enough of it, live in a big house and drive an expensive car.
Not so funny if you don't.
But, despite all their wealth, was it just me or did everyone think Dr. Peter Beaumont was a dickface of immense proportions…?
The answer is, according to a very recent survey: Yes.
Beaumont had a disparaging habit of calling staff by their surnames.
"Is that o’Riley? O’Sullivan, that you? Or is it o’Connor…? O’Neill, you seen o’Riley…?” he’d say.
(We’d had a plethora of Irish sales staff recently.)
“Broadway,” Beaumont called.
“Beaumont,” I said.
“I’d like to see you in my office, immediately,” Beaumont said.
“What about?” I said.
He ignored me and was about to enter his office.
I said: “I sure love working here - sometimes…!”
There was an uncomfortable silence, firstly because I’d suddenly yelled it across the showroom floor at him and, secondly, I’d made sure to yell it in front of several customers claiming to have very flexible budgets who were considering buying a piano built in Austria with the feel, sound and touch of a prestigious German piano.
I thought: Maybe he’d found about the “asshole” survey? Jesus! Would heads have to roll for that…!
In Beaumont’s office, before he could list his grievances with me, I tried an experiment: I asked Beaumont for the following week, Saturday, off.
Immediately he dismissed the idea.
“Too short notice, I’m afraid. This is retail, Broadway – we need people on the floor.”
“Is that a yes…? It’s not very clear.”
“That’s a no,” Beaumont said.
Prepared for this, I said: “Very well, then I need to book Saturday…” and I named some Saturday five years ahead in the future.
Immediately Beaumont pulled a face, scratched his head ostensibly deep in thought.
“That’s still several years away. Very difficult. It’s too early to know if we’ll have cover.”
“Is that a yes…?”
“That’s a no,” Beaumont said.
Which just proved what I’d suspected all along: No amount of advance notice would satisfy him, Beaumont was dicking us sales guys around!
I said: “You sure? Think, man, think! You are a doctor, aren't you…!"
"You goddamn whining little puke! I’m afraid I’m going to have to write you up for that insubordination as well…!” Beaumont said.
“What do you mean `as well’?” I asked, surprised.
He pointed at my shorts with some consternation.
BEAUMONT’S insisted on sales staff always wearing a suit, jacket and tie. They were cultivating an atmosphere, as if this alluded sophistication somehow guaranteed people would make a purchase. I was wearing a jacket and tie - with shorts.
I’d been written up for “insubordination” a few weeks earlier.
Beaumont was away and had phoned.
“Beaumont? Make it quick, we’re very busy here and this is a store-line you’re tying up,” I’d said to him.
“The sale signs up…?” he demanded.
“We having a sale…?”
“I told you last week – we having a sale!”
“We are…?” I said, feigning surprise. “Well, Beaumont, listen to me - we don’t want to do that, that will immediately encourage the footfall of professional time-waster assholes into the store.”
“That’s what you for, Broadway, dealing with the assholes. Assholes are where the money’s at.”
“Easy for you to say, Beaumont. You’re in Bora Bora, sunning it up. We’re here up to our knees in asshole shit,” I’d said.
So when he’d got back from Bora Bora, he’d written me up, officially.
The thing is, I could sell.
Overly honest with my lies and able to string words and sentences together in a way that sounded impressive in English, I was a good salesman. So good, I’d already “officially” been written up maybe 20 times. Beaumont didn’t like me, but he needed me and the other sales people like me. People who could keep smiling when they were up against the ropes and the customers were punching them in the face with their terrible, purported ignorance. Generally the remit of every customer was: "I'm about to ask you a series of entirely random and meaningless questions to which you will never ever be able to provide sufficient enough answer. Also, this is time you will never be able to get back, it will be minutes from your life, gone forever…!"
They would say this gleefully.
And even when they didn't say it quite like that, subconsciously they were gleeful.
I wasn’t going to take this shit anymore. Obviously I needed money, a regular paycheck, so I’d have to continue been dicked in the face by other people just like Beaumont.
But not by Beaumont.
“Let me tell you something, Beaumont, the nature of retail sales these days has left a very bad taste in my mouth. In fact, worse than just a taste, I often feel I’ve been raped - raped by these goddamn asshole customers out there.”
Beaumont suddenly shouted: “Just remember, it’s not rape if they can’t prove it…!” and then looked embarrassed.
And ashamed.
He’d thrown me there, for a second, because what he’d said had somehow sounded quite anecdotal for some reason and I’d wondered about that. Still, I pressed ahead.
“I’ve added up and calculated all the wasted time I’ve accrued since I started here dealing with pointless, random questions no one in their right mind would ever have the answers to. The amount of time I’ve lost and will never be able to get back amounts to $7,447. How’d you like to pay, Beaumont – electronic transfer or cash…?”
Beaumont raised his eyebrows.
Now, this was a pretty big undertaking on his part as his eyebrows were something to truly behold and involved erecting scaffolding on an industrial scale. I watched as the scaffolding was erected, a small team building it.
Several days passed.
Or so it felt.
Then Beaumont spoke.
I can’t say what he said. It was like listening to one of our customers and their overwhelming inanity. While he was talking I hold internal dialog. I think: I'm dying, fading away. This is time you are stealing from me I will never ever be able to get back.
Reimbursing anyone with money would hardly make up for it.
Unless it was a million bucks.
Make that several million.
I must have blacked out because when I came to Beaumont was still speaking.
Nothing had changed.
So I hotfooted it outta there and headed over to The Big Piano Warehouse Discount Store.

CHAPTER .4.

“Where you heading?” the taxi driver said.
“The Big Piano Warehouse Discount Store - you know it?”
“Sure do - you in the market for a piano?” he said as we pulled off.
He sounded skeptical.
I shook my head.
“Say, you in some kind trouble…?” he asked suspiciously, looking in the rear-view mirror at me.
“Just quit my job back there at Beaumont’s,” I said, hoiking my thumb over my shoulder back that way and into the past.
“You’re unemployed…?” the cab driver said, alarmed. Immediately he swung the car over to the curb and hit the brakes. “Get the fuck out - move it…!” he yelled, reaching back and opening my door; we hadn’t even skidded to a complete stop.
“Hey, man…” I said but he wouldn’t hear it.
I got out and he sped away into the traffic.
He must’ve put an All Points Bulletin out on me because none of the other taxis stopped for my fare, either, and I had to walk on up to The Big Piano Warehouse Discount Store. By the time I got there I was struggling to breath. Trying to get fit and lose a little weight I’d encountered a technical problem: Genetically, I was fucking lazy.
The sign outside the showroom said: The Big Piano Warehouse Discount Store - We Take Every Customer Seriously - Seriously.
Soon as I walked in, a slightly stocky man in his late fifties said: “You Broadway…?”
“Yeah…”
“Been waiting for you. Beaumont phoned up here saying what a lousy punk you were.”
Beaumont! That fucker…! He’d put out an All Points Bulletin out on me, too! Why, I was gonna find a way to get back down there, possibly on the bus, and  beat his ass…!  
“You know who I am? I’m the boss,” the man said.
I launched into my spiel: “Now look, mister, I don’t know what Beaumont told you but: I’m a motivated, self-starting and goal-oriented person with proven abilities. I’m very good in a team-”
“Stop talking shit - you can sell. I know that for a fact. That’s why that idiot turd, Beaumont, phoned up. He wouldn’t have bothered me if you couldn’t. He would’ve wished you on me if you were shit. When you want to start…?”
“I can start right now,” I said.
The Boss never told me his name.
That’s how everyone referred to him: The Boss.
One of the first things I noticed was The Big Piano Warehouse Discount Store stocked a lot of the same German pianos as BEAUMONT’S did, plus a variety of others: Chinese, Italian, Indonesian, American, Austrian, Polish. You name it. And they must’ve had about twice as much stock as BEAUMONT’S, maybe 250 pianos on the floor.
The Boss took a small steel ashtray out his pocket.
Then he lit a cigarette.
Very illegal, of course.
While the Boss was grilling me some more, and smoking, a customer came in.
He was wearing a heavy coat, buttoned up, a ladies pink tea hat and a matching ladies handbag over his shoulder.
Jesus Christ! How was anyone supposed to take customers seriously…?
“Hold on a second, Broadway - you okay there, Madam?” the Boss said to the man.
The man said his name was Catherine.
“You looking to buy a piano, Catherine?” the Boss said without missing a beat.
“A what…?” Catherine said.
“I see - listen, Catherine, we can’t be of any help to you, so move you’re ass on,” the Boss said. Then he turned back to me and said: “Gotta cut through the time-wasters, Broadway, and sell, sell, sell - now, where was I…?”
Catherine said: “That’s not very good customer service - how dare you turn your back to me! What if I was here to buy a piano? How very rude…!”
The Boss looked surprised the guy was still hanging around.
“Customer service, eh? Tell you what, you know, we can help after all. Let me just check something with my new colleague a second here – yup, Broadway’s just confirmed what I thought: Go outside that door there, Catherine, turn left and fuck off…!”
Catherine didn’t look like he was leaving any time soon.
“Now…!” the Boss yelled and Catherine jumped and quickly flew outta the store.
“I hope I’ve made myself clear, Broadway?”
“You sure have, Boss, cut through time-wasters and sell, sell, sell,” I said. “I have a question, about the staff incentive renumeration package?”
The Boss looked confused.
“Say what…?”
“Sales commission, Boss,” I said.
“Commission? Last time I checked, in fact, it was just a few minutes ago, you didn’t have a job. You sure you in the right interview?” he said.
The Boss was watching me very carefully.
“Look, Broadway, we a big company in a very small trade and this piano business is only going to get more difficult as the years pass. You already know how goddamn complicated the customers are. Piano stores are closing because of lack of customer demand. The customers are stupid. But the truth is stores are also closing ‘cause they can’t get staff with the right type of mentality. You not happy with the salary, find something else, while you still can. You want the job or not…?"
I nodded.
“Another thing, no smoking anywhere on the premises," he said, stubbing his cigarette out.
"So it’s like that," I said
"Yeah, that's exactly what it's like,” the Boss said. “Oh yeah, one other thing, Broadway, never come up to my office without being told to. Never! Any problems, you use the phone. You got that…?”
“Sure. I got it, Boss.
“And another thing, we take all customers seriously - seriously!”
Catherine was wandering around the far end of the store again, pretending to be looking at pianos.
The Boss went after her.
Catherine screamed.
The Boss chased Catherine out one of the side entrances and she ran out into the traffic and was almost run over by a bus…

CHAPTER .5.

Later I learned the Boss didn't play or even own a piano.
But he sure had good shoes and drove a nice car.
Very old-school, he was big on a man’s shoes.
“Shoes,” the Boss said, “shoes are a way to judge a man - you know why, Broadway? So you at least you have an idea of what kind of shit a man’s already stood in.”
“Uh-huh,” I said.
But why judge a man at all?
Because it's just something people (mostly women, wives and girlfriends) like to do.
The thing I noticed about The Big Piano Warehouse Discount Store was the customer profile was exactly the same as BEAUMONT’S pianos. Already, I couldn't take it anymore and felt close to cracking. For instance, I'd only been there a few minutes and already seven different customers had told me there grandmother had been a concert pianist.
I was starting to disbelieve them.
Every fucking customer’s grandmother was a concert pianist?
Statistically, it just seemed impossible.
What I particularly enjoyed was when a passerby, on their phone or talking to their family, would suddenly notice the all pianos through the glass facade of the store as they walked on their way. Out of the blue, right at that moment, they’d all remember they’d always wanted to buy a piano and in they’d come!
But where BEAUMONT’S had glorified and lauded the customer, The Big Piano Warehouse Discount Store was a store with a low tolerance for customer ignorance.
Or customer eccentricity or grandiosity.
Everyone at the the The Big Piano Warehouse Discount Store was an out-and-out liar.
I fitted right in.
“You Broadway…?” the sales guy said.
I nodded.
We were over by the main entrance, the desks with computers on them were arranged so the sales guys could jump any customers with questions who were trying to leave.
“Johnson,” Johnson said.
We shook hands.
Johnson showed me around.
He got me up to speed on the computerized accounts system. It was exactly the same as BEAUMONT’S - antiquated and unreliable, it would often stall the computers.
“CCTV cameras everywhere for the Boss to keep an eye on things,” Johnson said, pointing them out. “Oh, yeah, no smoking on the premises and never go upstairs into the offices,” he said.
He pointed to a set of stairs at the back of the store. The upstairs offices had a glass frontage running the entire width of the store. There were blinds but they were closed.
“The Boss live up there?” I wondered.
“Could be. Maybe. Last sales guy who went up there without being asked to, disappeared. Never saw him again, think the Boss killed him and dumped his body,” Johnson said.
“Or maybe he’s still up there,” I said.
“Could be. Maybe,” Johnson said.
A man wandered up to the sales desks. He was looking to sell a piano he had.
“What make of piano is it?” Johnson said.
“I don’t know,” the guy said.
“How old is the piano?” Johnson said.
“I don’t know.”
“When was it last tuned?” Johnson asked.
“I’ve no idea. Look, is there someone here who can give me a quote for this piano I’m selling…?” He looked at me - probably because I was wearing a jacket and tie; he couldn’t see my shorts hidden behind the desk and computer monitor.
“A quote? How much you selling it for…?” Johnson said.
“I don’t know - how much did you have in mind? It’s in excellent condition!” the man said.
Johnson looked at me.
Looked to me like Johnson was about to lose it. He was close to cracking, too.
“Maybe I can help…?” I said.
“Our piano buyer here, Mr Broadway, will try help you, sir,” Johnson said, smiling and standing aside.
“How can I help…?” I said.
“You’ve already heard I’m selling - I just need a quote!” the man said.
“You wanna a quote? No problem, what is it you’re selling?” I said.
“Jesus! I just wanna quote…!” the man yelled.
“Sure, let’s see now…” I said and went with Stanislaw Lec's: "If a man who cannot count finds a four-leaf clover, is he lucky…?"
"You trying to be funny…?" the man demanded.
“I could say the same thing about you, pal,” I said.
“Now look here, I’m a customer and-” he said but I shut him down.
“You buying something?” I wondered.
“What…?” he said, confused.
“Now don’t go getting all defensive. Firstly, you not a customer, I’m the customer. See Johnson here? He’s the customer, too! We’re buying, you selling! Secondly, you selling something but you don’t know what it is or even how old it is. You buy it new - or second-hand…? You don’t even know! What’s worse, you’re selling something while expecting the buyer, which is us, your customer, to decide the price you should sell it for without allowing them any of the information to know what it is they’re even buying - you think you walk into a Ford dealership to buy a car and the asshole sales guy says he doesn’t know what model car it is? You think the sales guy says he doesn’t really want to tell you if it’s new or second-hand or how old it is? You think the guys over at Ford won’t tell you the mileage or what the fucking goddamn price is?”
The man didn't say anything.
So we stood there, staring at one another.
This was an amazing retail experience.
Something had to give - he did and left.
Yeah, this was a different company, but it was still the same shit and same ridiculous people.
It wasn’t that we were dishonest, we were just tired of the shit people said because they thought we had to put up with it.
My phone in my pocket rang.
I didn’t answer. Because it could only be a woman, one of my shady parents or someone I owed money to.
And I didn’t want to speak to any of them.

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