Could ya hand me a pin, please?
He wanted to talk to anybody but me.
I almost managed to hold it back. Almost.
But I lashed out. I went batshit on him, and asked him if he remembered what he was doing eight, ten, twelve years ago, 'cause I was workin' here, workin' here, workin' here. When he tried to tell me it was "about something I didn't know anything about," I told him I'd been here long enough to know what the hell was goin' on and if I was the only one on the counter, I'd just have to be the only one there was to talk to.
Maybe he could hear my inner child... Not the one who loves Knight Rider and Hotwheels and Matchbox Cars; the older one, the frustrated junior-high one who could've been a School Shooter way back before School Shootings were all over the news.
There was something strangely satisfying that I could hear in his voice as he tried frantically to smooth things over; he called me "honey" and "baby" several times, and that almost pissed me right off until I realized it wasn't the same guy who pissed me off yesterday.
Whups. They really sounded a lot alike.
My inner junior high kid put her gun back in her backpack and tried not to cry...
When he finally gave in and asked me that question he thought I wouldn't know anything about, I was able to give a perfectly reasonable, professional, realistic, totally truthful answer.
"Yes, I saw the truck you worked on for us, and yes, you sent back the wrong key with it when we picked it up."
I resisted the temptation to say "See there? I know my shit..."
Here in the real world, I do not own any small guns that might fit inside any sort of backpack.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm gonna go find a pin so I can stick the almost-empty pill pack on my shirt to be sure the whole world can see just why I'm crazy this week.