Some of the People Who Live Here
…something has to change…it’s got this really weird neighborhood-y vibe to it, you should see some of the people who live there…
My buddy over at 11222 overheard some Yuppie smeghead on Nassau Avenue utter this into his cellphone recently. I am at a loss, but I find it telling that this asshole thinks the neighborhood should to change so as to meet his (undoubtedly) assholic standards. This man exemplifies a new strain of customer I am seeing at the junk shop with increased frequency: entitled upper-class twits.
Being the thoughtful employee I am, I make it a point to ensure that these folks are treated like the special people they are. My latest stint organizing the store’s pornography collection has been of great assistance in this endeavor. Yesterday we had some fast-talking jerk come in and try to chisel my co-worker on some vintage clothing. He decided the asking price of $5.00 pop for swinging 70’s duds was too expensive; he wanted them for $2.00.
I decided he needed to see a centerfold of a woman shooting a liter of Jergens lotion out of her womb. That shut him the fuck up. I am the ringmaster of this Donkey Show and if he doesn’t like it, too damned bad. Move.
I frequently fantasize about organizing death matches between this man’s ilk and some of the more colorful citizens in this neighborhood. Greenpoint would be my Thunderdome and I would preside over it like Tina Turner. I know who’d win too: the latter.
The main mistake “gentrifiers” make in this neighborhood is employing reason as a conflict resolution tool. Reason does not work with these people.
These are a few containers of mystery muck my manager found recently while unpacking boxes. They were promptly dispatched to the dumpster along with a number of other unsavory items. A reasonable person would not reach his (or her) hand into such a container; last week I had to admonish six very unreasonable people to refrain from reaching and/or climbing into this devil’s casserole to grab stuff. You could probably toss a dime into a vat of toxic waste (Newton Creek) and these people would go in after it.
They do not limit their aberrant behavior to dumpster diving, either. If not supervised like the children/animals they are, they will wander behind the counter and grab you by the arm. Of all the offending behaviors, violating my personal space is the most venal. I really, truly, DO NOT like people touching me. EVER.
Having had enough, I decided to make a sign using something I found recently while unpacking jewelry.
Sure this probably won’t work, but at least I had fun making it. If and/or when that cellphone yammering asshole comes in, this molar may very well get companion.
P.S.: I’d like to give a quick shout-out to a brand-spanking new blog hailing from Windsor Terrace called Icky in Brooklyn. This chap me sent me the nicest email yesterday to which I have yet to send a reply. Will do, provided Verizon does not knock out my Internet and telephone service (again). In four weeks I have experienced as many outages.