Tuesday, December 27, 2005
Draft #33
Over the Christmas break, I was reminded of a customer that used to frequent the gas station I worked at during college. This fellow's name was Mark and he kind of looks like Danny Bonaduce, the modern day version without the goatee. Mark has a disability of sorts, nothing he was born with I believe, but rumor has it he was involved in a car accident that messed him up physically. Mark is a 40 year old man that resembles "Timmy" from South Park, had Timmy ever attempted to get up out of his wheelchair and try walking. Mark is pretty self sufficient despite his disability, and this is assuming he has 56 hours in a day to complete his daily tasks. Mark's visits to the station would generally last 15-20 minutes if things went smoothly for him. Watching Mark walk was very, very painful. It's like there is a drunk puppeteer randomly pulling strings from above, each step a new adventure. His arms are always cocked in the position that we as kids would use to imitate retarded people, and don't act like you never did it, everyone at least did that karate chop across their chest while attempting to bite their ear. So with arms clenched/tucked near armpits, Mark would walk into the gas station on tippy toe and it was like he was about to fall with every step he took, almost a controllable wobble. He seemed to do all this without any kind of hip action, like a person wearing jeans that are just way to tight for them.
Now just to clarify, Mark is not retarded, he is severely handicapped. I don't want anybody commenting on how despicable I am for making fun of a retard, he is handicapped and Mark and I go way back, so yeah. When Mark wasn't rolling into the station in his rusty 91' Chevy Cavy, he could be found strolling around town in his tricycle, which I found to be an amazing feat for a guy that can't sign anything that resembles a word let alone his name on a credit card receipt. Actually, I have no idea how this guy is licensed to drive. His reaction time has to be absolutely terrible. I bet if you pitched Mark ten softballs and aimed to hit him with all ten, pitching at a slow softball speed, you'd plunk him everytime.
Mark, like a lot of the customers who frequented the station, was a creature of habit. Almost everytime he came in, he was there to get a 20 oz. diet Pepsi and a pack of Vantage 100's. Sometimes he would only get one of the two as a protest because the station down the street was selling his favorites cheaper. Oh wait, did I mention that Mark has a massive stuttering problem? Oh yeah, not only does Mark have the motor skills of a severely drunken Frankinstein, but he stammers like a 14 year old boy who just saw his first pair of live boobies (homida, homida, homida, hey-oh!). Mark is not big on appearence, so I'm pretty sure he's given up on washing his face after meals. I can almost picture Mark trying to spit out one of his numerous complaints with utter disregard for the weeks worth of crust hanging around the rim of his mouth, like it was yesterday.
Here's how a typical exchange with Mark might go:
Mark: d-d-d-d-d-a g-g-g-g-os Mewalke iz ch-ch-ch-ch-eaper
Andy: What?
Mark: g-g-g-as is ch-ch-ch-ch-eaper
Andy: Your rash is deeper? You've got a deep rash?
Mark: No (never seemed to stutter on the word no) M-m-m-miaukee g-gas is ch-ch-eaper.
Andy: The pharmacy said the rash is deeper? I have no idea what you are talking about. I've never had a deep rash before.
Mark: (Frustrated and pointing to gas prices on sign outside) g-g-gassss is ch-cheaper.
Andy: Ohhhhhhhhh, gas is cheaper. Yeah, we lowered the price just this morning.
Mark: (rolling his eyes and looking at me like I'm the retarded one) Yeah, I bbbet.
This example doesn't give justice to the degree this guy stutters. When he starts a sentence with the word "I", it's like watching somebody have a knife inserted into their belly before speaking. ah-ah-ah-ah-eye (his face clenched so tight it looks like he's trying to drop a 6 pound number two) spit flying everywhere. And I'm leaning on the counter, peered forward, with the hope that maybe if I stare really, really hard the words might make more sense, but they never do. I never really understood Mark's approach. If I had a stuttering problem like that, I would want to say as little as possible while at a gas station. But not Mark, he felt compelled to engage in friendly chit chat every visit.
After awhile, whenever I saw Mark drive in, I immediately walked outside (if another cashier was working) to meet Mark inorder to save him the trouble of walking in. He'd hand me his credit card and I'd ask him if he was having the usual, and he would reply with a yeah. I would then have to bring the receipt out to him on a clipboard so he could chicken scratch his signature on the dotted line. Mark would then continue to chat about stuff and I would nod my head as if I knew what he was talking about. This went on for months, maybe even a year or so, mostly without a thank you from his end of the exchange, and one day he asked a bold question. "Why do you come out here? I never asked you to." My first reaction was absolute rage. I thought to myself, what do you mean, why do I come out here? Cause it takes you half an hour to gimp your ass in and out of this place, you ungreatful cripple. Of course I didn't say that to him, but I did however stop meeting him outside, and from that day on, he would pull up to the front window and peer in like a puppy looking for his mommy. "Aren't you going to come out and help me?" said the look on his shit-eating grin. And to that I say no.
I actually felt bad the time he tried coming into the building and he fell between the two sets of doors in the entrance. A customer was nice enough to help him up, and I was glad I didn't have to do it. I'd a done it, but it was nice not having to. I guess all there is left to tell of Mark is the outlandish stories this guy likes to tell. Apparently his full time job is to apply to jobs, get rejected, and then sue the desired place of employment for discrimination. According to Mark he won an entire gas station in a settlement once. Riiiiiiight, guy can't wipe his own ass, but he operates a business, sure thing buddy. It seemed like he always had a court date to attend, and he even offered to buy our gas station, but he didn't think the place was worth two million dollars. And ladies, in case you think there is a chance that Mark is telling the truth and he might actually be filthy rich, you can check him out on the West Bend night scene, he frequents there too.
