Cinema Customer Scoop #3: If Only Phonics Came In Pill Form...

Evidently, the company which owns the theater where I am employed seems to believe that it's employees should both follow the USPS's code, and have the patience of Prometheus. Upon my arrival to work at three PM (Central Time), on Thursday the seventeenth day of March, in the year of our lord two-thousand and eleven I entered into the box office to find my coworker David. I was glad to find that I would not be suffering the wrath of brainless customers alone. Seeing as I would be there until after midnight, I needed all the help I could get. Though David only worked until five, I was later joined by Mattie later in the day, and we both learned to become greatly annoyed a incredibly irking mechincal problem.

To my dismay I discovered a horrible plague which had affected the electronic money machines throughout the course of the day. Apparently the building's internet service went down at some point during the night, an no one noticed or cared and it had gone on unresolved. Because of this, whenever you would enter in a credit card transaction, it would take eighteen seconds of your life away, and not give them back. This led to many a supreme awkward silence as you wait for the computer takes it's merry time printing out the ticket. As it took eighteen miserable seconds for this to transpire, a large portion of my life has been spent not talking to people while holding their debit cards.


But eventually the day came to an end, and I went home for a handful of hours, only to return to the theater at ten-thirty the next morning. To my great disappointment(and expectation) the internet had not been repaired, and card transactions still ate away a third of a minute of time away from me. According to one of the managers who called the company's corporate office telling them about the fact that the machines were acting so slowly, and likely was causing the company to lose money by simply accepting cards despite the fact that the information could not be sent out to the card companies the card made a purchase. The head office said they might get around to it on Tuesday. Showing that the company doesn't even care about earning money at this point, we decided to simply continue on possibly losing money.

Eventually the internet became operational again (thanks to some elves I guess) and I was able to send customers away quickly, instead of being forced to stare at their meaty faces longer than needed. Once again I was given Mattie as a cell-mate, but we also received several visitors, who would eventually crowd the box like a phone booth filled with 1920's college students. Around four thirty Bow came in to take away the cash monies from my drawer so I wouldn't have to work for the last half hour. But as she was pulling the cash from the drawer a rather portly and ape like man waddled up to the window. Sensing that something stupid was coming she rapidly said "Someone get them" many a time, but it was to no effect. It was bad enough when customers come up to the employee who is obviously busy with something that is not helping a customer, and demand satisfaction, but this was historically different.

The man came up to the window, looked down at Bow, read her nametag and decided for some unknown reason to shout out "Me Bow!" like a Neanderthal. This led to four grown men to shuffle out of site and laugh themselves stupid. After hearing the customer Bow's jaw tightened to an extent that it could make diamonds out of coal. A happy moment I will treasure forever.


After the not-Gieco cave man left, I still had about twenty-five minutes before my shift ended, and there was no money in my register. Unfortunately a line started to build up in front of Mattie, so I had to go back and work on my impoverished computer. Despite me constantly informing the line that I had no cash in the drawer, and was only able to process credit or debit cards they still came up clutching those pieces of green paper.

Eventually Bow decided to write a sign telling customers that I was only able to accept those wallet dwelling plastic planes. But this would require customers to actually read something, which as we know is one of their least developed skills. Hell most of them don't even know to put the money into the opening at the bottom of the window, a surprisingly large number of them press the money up to the glass, only to find that there is some kind of shield between me and them.

After the addition of the sign, I still had to constantly point and inform people that my line would not accept cash. Eventually another apish man came up to me and tried to give me cash money, to which I told him I would only accept cards. Apparently this was believed to be a verbal attack on him so he quipped at me with a mighty "Well, where does it say that?!" to which I pointed to the piece of paper which appeared to float above my left shoulder. So he countered with a crushing "Well you should get a bigger sign!" Granted the sign was not the largest size possible, customers still would not have read it anyways. Apparently reading is a chore to them. So, to assist them I place the note directly in front of my face, but apparently this was still not subtle enough for them. If people actually cared about reading, Hooked on Phonics would make a fortune off of nearly illiterate baby boomers.

Alejandro's Anti-Amazing Athletic Adventures No. 4: Nine Man Diamond Ball

As with many young American boys born before 1995 I participated in a number of sports teams. These may have been a vain attempt by my parents to keep me away from that magic glass box that I love so much. But, it was to no avail. Out of the sports openly available for young non-talents such as myself, I only played in to leagues. Once of which, was one of Japan's most popular sports: Baseball.

Yes I was entered to be a on a baseball squadron. My brother played on one many years before I, and I remember him saying how much he hated his coach. Also, that the only time he and his teammates had a good time while playing a game was when the coach was absent from the game (likely due to a severe Orangutan related incident.) On that occasion they were led by the assistant coach, who was well liked among the children, and encouraged them when they slipped up instead of running at them with one of those boards with a nail in it by Wammo.

It would be some time after this that I would try my hand at the competitive field of baseball. All I mostly remember from my brother's tenure in baseball was the snacks they would receive after their practice was over. I would scamper over to the ice chest lined with barrel shaped drinks and ho-ho's and become a small leech and take whatever snacks I could get and stuff down my gob before the parents could swipe me away.

Several years down the line, I felt the need that it was my time to play that sport that is very popular in Latin America. Though in all actuality I was not entered into the normal spring season of play, but rather the "Fall Ball" league, where the good players kept themselves from getting rusty, and the crap players were actually admitted onto the field. This was my place. The team itself was not the most horrible group of outcasts and delinquents that you might find in a children's baseball movie, so that was my first sign that this wasn't going to be as fun as the Bad News Bears. Unlike my brother's team, our coach was a rather nice fellow and was rather encouraging in our wanting to play the sport, and I actually enjoyed playing. Also, our team was the only one which had a girl on the squad, so we fit the sports movie formula even more.

As I was far from skillful, I was only placed in the outfield, as it was less essential that I have fantastical skills to get a player from the opposing team out. Plus, for some reason I was never able to throw the ball in a straight line, I always had to take an alternate route in which to propel that sphere of horse leather. Whenever I actually received the ball, and needed to pass it to the infield, I would have to throw it at an upward angle, making a parabola. The ball would always make it to the person I threw it to, but alas perhaps not as quickly as it would had it been thrown by someone who had an arm.

One of my main memories was the only run I ever scored directly. I was rarely up to bat, so every time I did get the chance to swing the bat, I cherished it. The team did score a few RBIs thanks to me, but I never got past the short stop. But at one point I somehow was propelled to second base, and there was a decent batter at the plate, so I waited like a child in line for the rocket cars at a carnival. Suddenly the bat made contact, and the ball flew over my head, and I started pumping my crazy legs. I rounded third, and bolted (relative term) down to home. Knowing that his was likely my only chance at scoring, I decided to make it as action packed as possible. So, I decided to slide (another chance I didn't learn.) Following my adeptness, I tried to slide on my knees like a rock star, rather than on one leg like a baseball player.

As the dust cleared it was revealed that I had stopped about two yards from the actual target. So in a spasm of excitement I scrambled to the home plate, taking all of the grace out of my attempt to be cool, continuing my streak of awkward un athleticism. Needless to say, the team didn't make it to the little league world championship in Japan.