True Porn Clerk Stories - Ali Davis [38]
He came in around 9:30. He was a big guy, dressed in baggy clothes, and he looked like he was either going to ask for an application or how you get a membership. (Correct on membership.) Lots of people come in wearing baggy clothes looking like they're going to ask for an application or a membership, and most of them do. What made this guy distinctive was his hair.
I'll go ahead and admit right off, I am not a fan of white-boy dreadlocks. Someone else can make the arguments about whether it's appropriating or appreciating someone else's culture; I just think they look silly.
This guy had gone one better: He had made an attempt at white-boy cornrows, but apparently hadn't felt like waiting for his hair to grow out long enough to do the braiding. Instead he'd had it cut very short, then shaved little trenches in it. It was an interesting solution, but not an effective one. From far away it looked like he might maybe have something like cornrows if I squinted, but once he got within ten feet of me it was just sort of sad.
The requirements for membership were a little stringent for him, so he said he'd look around while he thought about it. He looked around downstairs for a while, then left.
He came back about an hour later and headed straight downstairs. Someone who leaves and then comes back like that is almost always in league with Satan, so I glued myself to the monitor.
Something was up. He was pacing around, looking at boxes, checking out the cameras (though not as thoroughly as he might have) and in general becoming the living embodiment of the word "furtive".
He started tugging at his shirt.
I didn't know if he was going to whack off or stuff a box under it, but I didn't much care: I was not having it. Tony the beat cop had stopped in to say hi and check up a little earlier, so I knew he must be on the block. I gave him a call and asked him to stop by. I figured Tony doing a quick sweep would be enough to clear the guy out.
Seconds later, I put in a slightly more urgent call to Tony: The whacking had begun.
I had had enough. Normally I'll give someone a call on the Voice of God mic and tell them to cool it, but screw that -- the guy was beating off in my store. Fuck him.
Tony agreed. He said to call 911 and not let Bad Hair know anything was up. Done deal.
It felt weird to call 911 about a masturbator -- I had visions of fires and floods and children in danger being put on hold as I said "Yeah, I have a clear view of him on the security camera..." and thought about how not an emergency the situation was.
But 911 did not mind. I gave the dispatcher a description of the guy and our store location again and she said that police were already on the block and on their way.
A bizarre, disgusting race was now underway -- would the police get there before he finished?
Bad Hair whacked away, then looked over his shoulder. Jesus, was he finished or had he been disturbed?
He started upstairs. Fuck! I came around the counter so I could follow him out and show the police which way he'd gone.
Bad Hair started for the front door -- Damn it! -- and actually lit up a cigarette as he went. Now there's an "Alive with Pleasure" ad.
Fuck, he'd hit the front door. I charged forward to catch up and see if he was going to duck into an alleyway... and then the firm, disgusted hand of the law landed on his shoulder. Tony and two other officers had made it just in time.
"This him, Ali?"
"Yeah," I said, "I've got him on tape."
And then the Bad Man with Bad Hair was shoved (not so hard as to cause injury, but firmly enough to be satisfying) up against the outside of the store and cuffed while the officers did a very effective combination of questioning and shaming.
Then they took him away.
I signed a complaint, pulled the security tape, and said hell yes I'd show up for any court date they wanted to give me. Vengeful? Perhaps. But it was also very satisfying.
As effective as the Voice of God