When Worlds Collide: A Record Shop Reprise.
I am trapped in a nightmare of my own making, and perversely somewhat (kind of) enjoying it. Although harking back to one’s past can lead to ruminating regretfully on how things have changed, such as most friends that have moved away to do adult things like breed, get mortgages and get married/divorced/married, or family members that are searingly painfully no longer around, it can also provide a certain amount of entertainment. (Well, a bit.)
This blog has been absent for a few months due to a mixture of ‘character building’ setbacks. One of which is an absolute paucity of money which has led to my internet being cut off as well as the real risk of eviction. This rather urgent setback saw me return to the record shop with cap in hand asking for the possibility of a few days work during my annual leave from the slavery of the ‘leading-high-street-stationers/book sellers to attain some pocket money so I can buy some food. What a holiday. Still, at least I won’t get delayed at any airports, contract amoebic dysentery or get sunburnt. Phew.
What I will get though is the unsettling sensation that I have never, ever even left. The last sixteen months have been a real time and highly tedious dream of being unappreciated in another shop on the minimum wage. I spent yesterday whimpering on the inside as each person that visited the shop greeted me like I was there every day. No one asked what I was doing there or where I’d been. It was like one of those dreams when no matter how loud you shout no one even notices that you’re screaming. Then hell’s gape grew even wider and spat that most abhorrent of creatures back into my sphere of existence: Peter the mancunian, or Manx as we know him here, or smelly Pete, or that c*nt – which is the most apt description. Regular readers of both my record shop and bookselling blogs have been introduced to this repellent individual before and know that he is my arch adversary. His mere existence casts an indelible shadow over humankind. If God was real and cast his all seeing eyes over His creation of mankind in some sort of appraisal, He would weep. He would wipe us all out in one move and probably spend the rest of time building the word ’sorry’ out of cosmic Lego bricks and casting them out into the universe as a self induced punishment. AND IT WOULDN’T BE ENOUGH.
The reason I reacted so badly to Manx appearing was that record shop owner had informed me that he had been banned. He had been banned (long, long overdue) for being too rude too often; so rude that even mild-mannered record shop owner got pissed off and told him where to go with his Bonnie Tyler picture discs and Michael Bolton LPs and fetid body odour.
At eleven AM I spy the unmistakable swagger and lank hair of that man on the traffic island in the middle of the road outside. He has stopped and is staring in the direction of the shop, motionless. Owner and myself are here and he strides off in his style that resembles someone who hasn’t made it to the toilet on time. He’s seen me, I know it, but I feel safe as he walks off -seeing as he’s barred.
An hour later and owner has left. The door opens and I look up from the PC to see that nasal voiced odious little tick coming in.
‘You’re banned Peter.’
‘You wanna buy some top funk?’
‘No. You’re banned Peter.’
‘Am I?’ He asks, and comes in anyway.
At this stage I really can’t be bothered and curse the fact that on the first of only two days that I am here I am cursed with this trouble maker. I decide to let him go through the two small bins of £1 LPs before I remind him again. He wants to play mind games. I don’t. He finishes looking through and moves to the CDs.
‘ Get out please Peter.’ I demand. He refuses to acknowledge my statement so I repeat it. Again, no reaction and it becomes a matter of principle. I will not be defeated by this acrid cretin. I decide, for only the fourth time in fifteen years to manhandle a customer. It’s just lucky there is some of that antiseptic hand lotion on the desk for decontamination afterwards, although a sheep dip may be more helpful. I get up and put my arms out.
‘Get your hands off me!’ He sneers. A look of hatred illuminates his impossibly small evil piss-hole eyes. He then turns and goes back to pretending to look at CDs. We both know that he’s pretending as it is all about a battle of wills now, not what Kenny G CDs he can find. I grab his rucksack and attempt to drag him towards the door. Once again he spins round but this time slaps my arms away. I can feel the possibility of physical violence in the air. It makes me nervous on the inside but I’m not going to show this vile worm any semblance of it. To be honest, I’ve never wanted to punch anyone as much as this but the last fight I had was when I was eleven and I lost that, besides, I can’t afford to get my glasses damaged.
His defiance makes me seethe. I grab his rucksack again and the same reaction ensues; he spins and slaps my arms away.
He shouts: ‘I’ve got witnesses!’ as there are two guys looking through CDs with their back to us.
‘They couldn’t give a shit and they’re not even looking.’ I say. He looks over, the two men have developed selective hearing and have not paid any visible attention to what is going on. Manx walks off towards some more LPs stored under a rack on the floor.
‘Get out Peter.’
‘It’s cool, everything’s cool.’ He says.
‘It’s not cool, you’re in here and you’re banned.’ I say. He ignores me. I’m losing. Then I try my last resort before a proper tussle takes place: the annoyance technique. This entails me standing in front of wherever he tries to look. This is at once effective, surprisingly so. He is thwarted by my childish antics.
‘If it wasn’t for you and your mouth I wouldn’t be banned!,’ he cries, ‘and that fuckin’ joker you work with!’ All I do is smirk and he finally leaves. I apologise to the two guys for the scene that they refused to acknowledge and make some coffee. It is just like old times.
…………………………………………..
Today is a little better. No fights but I’ve had the bus spotter in. Another who hasn’t even realised that I haven’t been around for ages. We have the same conversation as he asks me for things that don’t exist and he leaves. Some things never change, nor should they. It’s like wrapping yourself up in an old comfort blanket only to find someone’s been sick on it.
