At the Bookstore, we have crazy customers, and then we have CRAZY customers.

The crazy customers are no big deal. They take some time to deal with, but they’re usually worth a good hearty laugh afterwords. The prime example of this is the old lady who left her over-the-counter-cheap-pharmaceuticals in the store, then called us and requested that we ship them to her. She agreed to pay the shipping fee, and I asked for her address: it was just a few miles up the road, directly on the same Metro line that’s got an exit a block from the store, and also accessible to a bus route that drops off a block in the opposite direction. Never mind the fact that she could just trudge out to a CVS and buy the drugs — again! — for less than what she was willing to pay in shipping, I didn’t understand why she just didn’t hop on the damn bus.

But, being in downtown DC, we get a lot of legitimately CRAZY people. Like folks who should be in a mental institution somewhere, yet are cruelly left to wander the mean streets of DC. This is as selfish a wish as any, as I would prefer not to have to deal with them myself. Alas.

We give them nicknames. There’s Cave Man. He cuts his own hair. He stinks. He pulls books from all over the store and makes a big pile. He has a particular preference for books and magazines that feature naked or mostly-naked women. There’s White Manga Man (to distinguish him from all the other Manga Men), who our Operations Manager would dearly like to pummel to death with a magazine (“Why a magazine?” “Because its softer — it’ll hurt more over time!”). There’s Inker, the dude who draws on and in books and mutters racial epithets under his breath when white staffers are nearby. There’s the white lady who, although she doesn’t draw on books, takes store pens and draws on herself, and when we ask her to leave, informs us all that the FBI is looking for her and we should forward all requests to Robert Mueller (in DC, even the crazy people have delusions of grandeur).

Last night, one of the CRAZY customers was being ushered out of the cafe. He apparently missed all three “dear customers, we’re closing soon, get the fuck out” announcements, but thankfully began packing his bags when told face to face. Sadly (for me), I was on door duty last night. Door duty starts at five minutes to closing: a staff member locks the right-hand inner door, and stands at the left-hand inner door to allow customers out, and to warn ones coming in, “We’re closing in a couple of minutes.” That’s how I do it, anyway, everyone has their own style.

Anyway, this guy, (now known as Mr. Columbia Records) to my great and everlasting regret, recognized me. As I’m trying to get him into the vestibule so I can lock the door and we can finish what we have to finish so we can all go home. And then he wants to talk. At which point I said, “Oh, so sorry, the alarm is about to go off”, and closed and locked the door in his face.

Back story: about two Sundays ago, he came in looking for some obscure Jazz CD. I can’t remember which one, except that it was a trio of artists. While I was able to pull up a listing for it in our computer, our store didn’t carry it, and none of our other locations in the region did either. Up to this point, our conversation had been pretty kosher: no warning bells were going off.

But hooo boy.

The record was published by Columbia Records. He told me this. Then he started telling me about how Columbia Records had fifteen letters in its name, which, coincidentally, was the same amount of letters in the name of the agent who signed his disability paperwork: at which point he pulled out a file folder, strained beyond belief, and showed me a disability form dated 1980. And then he told me the names of the artists, added up, had seventeen letters, which was the same amount of letters as the name of someone else who’d signed some social security forms of his. And this, plus the fact that the two dollar bill, added to the one dollar bill, equaled the three dollar bill, was evidence of why the world was out to get him. (The sad thing is, I’m not even making this up).

At this point, trying to lighten things up, I joked that the two dollar bill and the one dollar bill added up to twelve quarters, and he gave me this look like fucking Mork had jumped out of my skull and was dancing a jig on my scalp. I really wish Mork had jumped out of my skull, because with any luck I’d be too busy being dead for this guy’s tastes and he’d find someone else to harass.

But, no.

But oh god was the joke a bad idea, because the next thing I know, he’s telling me some story that starts with him and a buddy hooking up with the same girl, and then they fight, and then one of the disability agents from before is burning down a building in a conspiracy to keep Mr. Columbia Records from his billions of billions of virgins (yeah, I was surprised too, I thought he was going to say “billions of billions of $2s.”). The best part of the story was when he said, “…and then the bitch called the Po-Po and tried to have me committed to a mental hospital! Now, let me ask you: do I seem the least bit crazy to you?”

It took all of my self control to maintain a straight face and say “No.”