Monday, November 13, 2006

Late night Bolen Books shift.

Off at 10:00 P.M., across the street to the bustop by 10:03.

10:15: bus has not arrived.

10:30: no bus. No bus, no cars, no nothing. It's dark out.

10:35: Sketchy bearded Manson look-a-like approaches from across the street and walks past me once, then turns and comes back.

Manson: (serious as hell) "What the fuck did you do with my pack?"

Me: "What?"

Manson: "What did you do with my fucking backpack? I left it right here at this stop. Where the fuck is it?

Me: "I don't know what you're talking about, man. I'm waiting for the bus."

Manson: "Don't fuckin lie to me you fuckin goof. I'll fucking beat it out of you, you fuckin faggot piece of shit. Where is it?"

Me: (too tired and cranky to be all that frightened, but not exactly comfortable here) "Dude, I don't have your backpack. I don't want your backpack. Why don't you just fuck off?"

Manson: "You're this close to gettin stabbed, you know that?" (hand in pocket)

Me: (right leg vibrating up a storm-which I know from experience means I am about 3 seconds from making violent physical contact with someone.) "For what, man? I just told you I don't have your backpack."

Manson: "I'm gonna stab you in the fucking eye. Where is it?"

Me: "Fuck off."

Suddenly, Manson turns and runs full speed in the other direction, disappearing around the edge of the London Drugs parkade. I turn around and there is a cop car behind me, just pulled up. A young cop steps out and approaches me.

Cop: "Who was the guy you were just talking to?"

Me: "I don't know. Some guy looking for his backpack. Said he was going to stab me."

Cop leaps back into car, peels out and barrels around the back of London Drugs.

Bus arrives. Home by 11:05.

"How was work?" asks V.