Ok, get this.


I am work, right? So this motherfucker rolls in, drunk as *hell*. Can hardly speak, can hardly fuckin' stand up. Asks to use the bathroom, is told we don't have one, and promptly leaves.

Like, a half hour (or so) later, another pair of customers (the female of the pair might have been Eliza Dushku; she's been in a few times before) asks what this dude is doing laying next to his truck (parked in the handicapped zone). We take a look, his truck's still there, running, with the headlights on. He's passed out next to it. The passenger side door is open. The MOD (manager on duty), in her infinite charity, decides she's going to chat him up and see if she can figure out what his deal is. Of course, she gets nowhere. I give out the options: 1) do nothing or 2) call the cops. (My preference would have been to do nothing.
So the cops show up. (Dunno who called 'em. Wasn't us.) They take statements from the MOD and Charlene (fellow jockey), get some info out of the guy and start calling all these people he knows to coem get him 'cause the cops don't want to take his ass to the tank. It's take hours and they'd have to do paperwork. Fuck *that* noise, right? As it turns out, either nobody can get him or nobody wants to. His wife is divorcing him and he's fucking loaded. Apparently his wallet was stuffed full of large bills and he mumbled something about losing his house (presumably to his wife) which was worth several hundreds of thousands of dollars. So the cops re-park his car out of the handicapped space, leaving us with the decision as to whether or not to have it towed, and haul his pathetic ass away.



Next week, I'm not closing more than two nights. End of fuckin' story.