https://np.reddit.com/r/TalesFromRetail/comments/6clezo/sir_sir_you_are_on_fire_sir/"I tell this story constantly as basically my prime example of why I legitimately love my job. If you ever meet me IRL and say I ripped off my own reddit post, I will cry.
ALRIGHT.
So I work in a grocery store, as one does, and I sell death and false hope, as one also does. That is to say, cigarettes and lottery. This is important, because I am working the customer service desk. We're the last thing you see on the way out, and often the first stop on the way in if you're the kind of guy who's 50-something and your mustache is literally yellow with nicotine, but then we fall into a completely different story.
For now, I would like to discuss two people. The first is the Drunkigh man. I say this because I am reasonably certain he was on EVERYTHING.
I prefer doing this in person because it's hard to describe this walk, so you're going to have to do it for me. Make the font size bigger, and get out of your chair.
Okay, good work. Now, lean your waist back as far as you can while remaining standing. Good. Brace yourself on something. Don't injure yourself for the sake of a story now.
Now, take a step forward, leaning forward at the same time. You should be bent over forward like a broken-down wind-up doll. Now, you can right yourself, because you are not the drunkigh man. You are not in need of the second person,
THE BEST FRIEND IN THE WORLD.
This man is stone cold sober. He is physically righting the drunkigh man after every step. He is apologizing to everyone in a five foot radius like some kind of support class in a MOBA noone has ever wanted to play. This man is enduring for reasons beyond my comprehension, and he has not yet begun to show the true brilliance of his inner light of goodness.
The Drunkigh man looks at me. His finger raises, I suspect to try to discern which of the three of me was the real one, judging from the lack of focus in his eyes. And he says to me, with a firm, slurred determination..
'I want shome...'
'I want shome shmokes.'
I will not fault the man his desire for tobacco. It may be the one chemical he has yet to ingest today. Unfortunately, I am strictly forbidden from using telepathy at work since the incident. Therefore, I bravely stride into the bog of futility.
"What sort of smokes can I get you?" I say, knowing fully well what's about to happen. Sadly, professionalism requires that occasionally you accept you are making an irrelevant gesture.
To his credit, he seemed thoughtful for approximately five to ten seconds. My lineup consisted of him and one other person, whom seemed reasonably amused by the proceedings. The drunkigh man's cogitation ceases. He looks at me.
"I want..."
"I want shome smokes," He says, more satisfiedly this time. He has, after all, answered my query beyond any reasonable doubt. Any further confusion is purely on my part. Luckily, for my inferior intellect, the BEST FRIEND IN THE WORLD steps in.
"Just get him something cheap."
Which I can do, easily, and I put it on the table. He surprisingly dextrously removes his debit card from his wallet, and somehow, successfully swipes it. But now our hero is faced with an obstacle; He must recall and successfully input four consecutive digits to retrieve his prize.
"Zero," He says, stirring ancestral memories to the forefront of his awareness. Leaning back, to better view the pinpad, his finger firmly presses against the button. Success!
Time passes. Sweat beads mildly on his forehead. It was summer, though, so maybe it was that? It's been years.
"Zero," He concludes, with another push of the button. You may think I am changing the code for the sake of the innocent. I am not. You may think there are bank policies that prevent the horror you're about to witness. I believed so too. We are both wrong.
The third "Zero" is said somewhat tentatively. He is unsure. His mouth twitches. He cannot afford a mistake now when so much is on the line. Should he try again? No! No, he must be bold. He must strive forward, he must--
"ZERO!" The resounding cry of memories successfully penetrating to the surface. Why, yes, his pin was 0000.
And it worked. I know it worked, because the error code it gave me was for insufficient funds.
He is thoughtful, for a moment, but he did not come this far to be stymied. No, a hero must rail against the darkness of financial void.
"Try again," He says, considering. He must adapt his strategy, after all, if he is to triumph.
"Try again, but wisch...twenty bucksh extra cash."
You ask yourself, why would I agree to this? Why would I let this man attempt this thing, when there are now three people in my lineup, at least two of whom are laughing so hard I suspect they may require incontinence products in short order?
Because there is the slim chance this man intended to draw from his savings account, instead of his chequing. I would be doing this man a disservice if I did not provide him this opportunity.
He swipes his card. I'm not certain which he pressed, because I am distracted. I smell something.
I have a particularly weak sense of smell, so it's intriguing to me when I smell anything. Pot, perfume, the odd scent of smoke--well, the deli has caught fire a few times this year, so I look over and..they're not panicking. Very well, I am hallucinating the smell of smoke, I decide. Perhaps my brain has decided to commit itself to an honorable suicide.
"Zero," He continues. He has to drudge through a lot. I'm going to forgive him. If I was as inebriated as he, I would not remember my PIN either. This man has fought to get where he is right now, and the BEST FRIEND is doing his damndest to do damage control.
I will skip the third and fourth zeroes, as nothing of import occurs. I will, however, give you the regrettable conclusion; Insufficient funds.
Our drunkigh man is in a crisis, now. He looks to me. Taps his chin. He has to do something. He has to save his social standing in front of the five people now waiting in line.
Inspiration hits.
"Try again," He says, with the smug expression of a japanese prosecutor with too many cravats, "But wisch shirty bucksh extra cash."
Perhaps it is me. Perhaps I am misunderstanding his goals and dreams. I should clarify.
"So you did not have seven dollars and fifty cents," I ask, "But to be clear, you are absolutely certain you DO have thirtyseven dollars and fifty cents."
"Yeah!" He says proudly. I suppose, as I resignedly let him swipe, I will give him this. I look to the Best Friend. He understands. Everything is on the line now, I will have to ask him to leave after th--
I smell something. I'm sure of it.
"Zero."
No. No, I don't know wh---
"Zero."
There is a pillar of smoke rising from this man's crotch. Well, no. It's more like an inverted pyramid. I'm amazed he can't see it.
I have said many things in retail. "Hi, how are you?" "Yes, we will allow you to return this salt, I apologize for its high sodium content," "Please do not urinate in the bottle return."
It has been nearly a decade, and I still have not had to repeat the day I said,
"Sir? Sir, you are on fire, sir!"
"WHOA!" He says, leaping into action. Action, of course, being two feet behind him. His arms windmill. It's not terribly effective.
The good news is, I'm slightly wrong. He's wearing a hoodie. The fire has started in his hoodie pocket, and it's about three inches in diameter, spewing smoke like a dyspeptic dragon. I assume dragons do that when they have dyspepsia. I'm not a dragon specialist.
The better news is, do you remember that man I called the Best Friend In The World?
Because he has a tired expression on his face, right now.
And he steps over. He puts his hand into the burning pocket, because of course he does. He pulls out the lit cigarette that has been in his pocket for the duration of this excruciatingly long transaction. He puts it out on his bare hands because he lives in a different world, one where we don't register pain.
He then puts the fire out with his bare hands because he is fully invested in this man's wellbeing, and agreed to sacrifice his own in what I can only assume is a Faustian bargain for immortality.
There is a long moment.
"i should"
The drunkigh man seems contrite. He is aware he has committed some vague social faus pax, as near as I can tell.
"i should go. now."
He is in the process of putting his debit card back into his wallet, when the Best Friend In The World spots something.
"Is that--is that a ten dollar bill?!"
"yeah but i--"
The best friend rips the ten dollar bill out of the wallet, and places it down.
So, TL;DR I still made the sale, and that's all that really matters."
