For A Dollah' Fitty Less
On the beautiful morning of Saturday June 23, 2012, I walked into my father's gas station, ready to start a twelve-hour shift. Being the "Indian guy," I feel that I have an obligation to reveal that many of my customers have trouble understanding me because of my heavy accent. On this particular day, I had such a customer.
As I was clocking in, a oversized woman walked to my register. I greeted her and we began this transaction.
"One pack of Newport One-Hundreds, please."
I grabbed her cigarettes and scanned them. Her bill was $5.54. As she looked at the price, she replied "Naw, honay, they is four-oh-five down the street. You need to match that price, sweety." The first thing that I thought was no way in hell Newports were $4.05 down the street. I told her that we wouldn't be able to offer her that price. And that's when the confrontation began. "All y'all Indians da' same. Y'all cheap and be ripping us folks off, and where's yo' manager?" I told her that I was the manager on duty and she continued screaming.
After a few minutes, she threw a ten-dollar bill at me. I gave her the change back and tried to apologize for the inconvenience. She quickly left. Or so I thought.
After about twenty minutes, she came back and asked me where the bathroom was. I pointed her to the bathroom and she went in. As a storm of customers came in, I didn't see her for about 15 to 20 minutes. After another 15 minutes passed, I decided to knock on the door and see if she was still in there. The door was open. The decision to open the door was one of the more poor ones that I have made in my life. As I turned the light on, my innocence was taken from me.
She drew smiley faces with her poop all over the walls. The mirror was completely brown. There was poop all over the toilet seat. There was poop on the toilet paper dispenser. How one person could produce so much poop is still a mystery to me. I screamed so loudly that I can still taste the fumes from her poop in my lungs today.
I quickly exited the bathroom and called the police. They came a few minutes later and a big Officer Wiggums-looking man walked into my gas station. Before I had a chance to say a word, he alerted to his dispatcher that he was on the scene. His first words to me were, "So someone shit in your refrigerator?"
What a dumbass, I thought to myself. "NO," I replied, "in the bathroom, man." His next words were the ones that told me this man was in the movie Super Troopers:
"Isn't that what you're supposed to do in the bathroom?" Ah, fuck my life. I didn't say a word. I just walked him over to the crime scene.
"Oh God, oh God, oh God..." He put his shirt over his nose and started taking pictures of the bathroom. He even pointed out an area next to the toilet where the culprit left about a foot of poop. After he finished his report, he told me he would be back later to check the security cameras. I closed down the gas station and headed to local Menards to rent a high-pressure washer. I even bought a surgical mask to alleviate the stench.
I returned to the gas station and opened the bathroom door. I stood about 15 feet away and started washing. Needless to say, I was in there for about an hour before I could reopen the gas station. The police officer also did not return that day, and I realized that no action was going to be taken. My life has not been the same since yesterday. I might visit the therapist later on this week.
The poop bandit remains on the loose.