Music Post II: The Return of George

Hello.

Since it had been a week between my last two posts, I had accumulated sordid stories from across Booth and Noble. What follows is a small sampling of them:

"The Return of George"

Some of you may remember George. George is one of those customers that never seem to leave Booth and Noble. There are about five or six people who decide, for whatever reason, that Booth and Noble, a place of business, would be a fine place to spend their every waking hour. They arrive when the store opens, buy one small coffee (and numerous refills), and stay in the store until it approximately closes. We call these people "regulars," which is about as ironic a name as you can get, because they are anything but regular people. Those we Grunts like get called by their name. The ones we Grunts don't like get referred to by their identifying characteristics: "the professor," "smelly man with headphones," "euro-trash."

For some, however, we can't but help know their name.

For those of you that don't know George (not his real name, unfortunately), or don't know to whom I refer, I will illustrate with a quick recap of a previous post:

"A little while later, George walks in. Perhaps I should describe George for you so that you get an idea of what he looks like.

George is over six foot tall and large. I wouldn't call him obese, but he obviously enjoys a good OCB five or six times a week. He's in his late 40s, early 50s and he always wears a ridiculous trucker's hat. … He wears a bluetooth in his ear at all times, even though I have never seen (or heard -- importantly, you will see) him on the phone. He is permanently in need of a shave.

Also, George also cannot control the volume of his voice.

Some would call this tragic. Others would say, then George should watch what he says. However, neither of these would be appropriate for George. The first time I met him, he asked me (loudly) if I had any DOCUMENTARIES ABOUT SHARKS!

Anyway, yesterday he walks in and he screams (and I mean SCREAM - he's talking FULL VOLUME and can be heard ALL OVER THE STORE) "I'M LOOKING FOR MAGICAL MYSTERY TOUR BY ELTON JOHN."

I say, "I think The Beatles did that."

He screams, "I KNOW THE BEATLES DID IT. I WANT THE ELTON JOHN VERSION."

Perhaps I'm unfamiliar with it, so I look it up. But I didn't find it. I tell him so.

George then remarks: "I WILL BROWSE NOW." The guy reminds me of Andre the Giant.

He wanders around Soul for a while until he comes back and screams, "DO YOU HAVE THE PONY SONG?"

"What?"

"THE SONG ABOUT RIDING A PONY?"

"I'm not familiar with it. Do you have a title?"

"NO, BUT I CAN SING IT." And this is where he starts singing, top of his lungs, "RIDE....MY PONY! RIIIIIIIDDDDDDEEE! MY PONY!" And as if I didn't understand this, he then starts dancing.

His dance involves an oddly stilted undulation and a strict up and down movement, as if one was indeed riding a pony. He does, however, offer the occasional "smack" onto the pony's rear end...and then, yes, begins to sing again.

"RIDE...MY PONY! RIIIIIIIDDDDDDEEEE! MY PONY!" SMACK! "RIDING MY PONY!"

Although I’m familiar with the song, I never ever want to hear it again."

I wrote those words, back when this blog was an infant of blogs (a blogette). Since then, George has not come back into Booth and Noble -- at least, not when I was working.

At least, not until the other day.

George lumbers in, on a mission.

"I NEED TO WAIT UNTIL MY CAR IS REPAIRED."

I look at him. "Ok, can I find anything for you?"

"DO YOU HAVE THE HONEYMOONERS, SEASON 3?"

A quick check on the computer reveals that we do not. I tell him so, my voice quivering through the sheer inertia that his voice powers through the air.

"VERY WELL. MY CAR DOES NOT START."

"I'm sorry. Looks like you're..." and that's when it hits me. "...stuck here." I sigh, audibly. "How long until it's repaired?"

"THEY TELL ME AN HOUR." Inwardly, I cheer. Outwardly, I ... well ... cheer.

Later, however, George wanders back into the music department. He examines some DVDs and then his phone -- his bluetooth -- starts to ring off the hook (off the ear?).

"HELLO? WHAT? YES. BOOTH AND NOBLE. DOCUMENTARIES ABOUT SHARKS. NO. NO. NO. FINE." He touches a button on his ear and turns to me. "MY CAR WON'T BE READY FOR ANOTHER TWO HOURS. DO YOU HAVE ANY INFORMATION ABOUT WELCOME BACK KOTTER?"

That's not the most agitating thing about working in the music department, though. What really ends up being the turning point from a good day to a bad (and they all pretty much hinge on one or two customers) are the People that Assume Too Much (the PATM). The PATM assume that a) because I work in music I must know every single song on the radio at the moment and b) that I care what they think about music.

A) A gentleman comes into Booth and Noble with a request: do we have a particular song, by a particular artist? It is a normal enough question -- at least, normal enough for Booth and Noble, where our average customer is less-than-literate.

However, what is amazing is that this gentleman doesn't know 1) the artist or 2) the song title. He does, as he points out however, know how the song goes. And then he proceeds to sing it for me. Not with words, mind you -- that would be too easy. No, he sings it with "tra"s and "la"s and "fa"s, like a beautiful aria from Puccini.

Needless to say, I have no idea what he is singing. A random grouping of notes, sung off-tune by an obese man with a beard, does not a jukebox make.

B) A woman rushes into Booth and Noble's music department with an urgent -- URGENT -- request.

"I must have Nickelback's album," she practically screams at me. I lead her to the "Nickelback" area of the Pop Rock section, helpfully labeled "N" right after "M" and right before "O."

She grabs the album and races me back to the cash register. I saunter, because I don't care and I'm not in a rush.

She impatiently taps on the counter.

"Come on!"

I wind my way back behind the counter and ring up her order. I do not make polite chit-chat because 1) I don't care and 2) she is annoyingly too excited about Nickelback.

She, however, wants to be best friends with me. "Do you love Nickelback?" she asks me. "No," I honestly reply. "Why not?" she demands. "I don't know," I truthfully say. "I really wish I did though." That was a lie. A lie to make her feel better.

She then whips out her phone. "You know how much I love Nickelback?" I shook my head, afraid that she was about to call the lead singer of Nickelback to tell her she was horny for him.

She hit a button.

A song started playing.

A Nickelback song.

"That's how much." And she smiled a sweet smile, as if to say, "I love Nickelback more than anything in the world."

Because nothing says "love" like a ringtone.