It’s a proven fact:
When you work the closing shift at a bookstore, you are essentially being paid to clean up after other people’s pornfests.
And the happy little porn-loiterers come in two flavours, I’ve found.
Type A, at least, will own the fact that there are merely there to look at porn, and so will leave skinmags strewn merrily about the men’s restroom.
Type B, however, is inexplicably determined to do two things:
1. to get their rocks off in public, and
2. to still somehow be “discreet”.
Type B favours things like exercise books and yoga magazines instead, and seem to honestly think that no one will notice anything at all amiss if they just hold one of said magazines inches from their face while breathing heavily all over it.
And it is Type B who brings us tonight’s story!
It’s also a proven fact that you find weird shit in bookstores, and I’ve certainly seen my share.
But even I was baffled tonight, when a coworker called me over with, “I. I need to share this with someone.”
And she opened up a women’s exercise book, bookmarked with an out-of-state library card, a business card for a salon…and most confusingly of all, a neatly snipped-off bit of bra-band, tiny white hooks and all.
This was somewhat explained a few minutes later, when I then found a tiny empty bottle of whiskey, perched on one of our gift displays.
Happy Father’s Day, indeed.