Monday, Virgin MegaStore, Times Square, NYC:
Summer is upon us–this is the part of the job I hate. Bands come in every week promoting their factory processed albums, brought here by the management. They set up their equipment and play a few songs in an area that isn’t big enough to hold all the members of UB-40. But they do it anyway, and I have to run security for the whole damn thing.
God, I never thought I would end up here. I always figured, I dunno, maybe Head of Security at Barnes and Noble…now that has a nice ring to it. Implies a superior clientele, an educated clientele. The worst that can happen is someone spends too much time on Atlas Shrugged, they get a little depressed and never want to read again. All I gotta do is give them a free latte from the coffee bar, maybe a biscotti at half off, and assure them that not all books are as boring and repetitive as Atlas. Then send them over to the picture book area for some rehab.
At Virgin, the average customer is a 14 year old female. The first thing that pops into their minds when you say Elmer Gantry is “Why did they bother giving glue a last name?” Sigh. And the screaming, good God, the screaming. It sounds like a thousand little Mariah Careys, all yelling like Puff Daddy just bitch-slapped them during their video together. (C’mon, we all know it happened.) That scream is my everyday.
Well, at least it’s the main Virgin Megastore, smack dab in the middle of Times Square. That’s how my parents encourage me. I could be working at a smaller chain, like…Sam Goody. Oh, the horror. $22.99 for one CD? Do they know what prices are in the rest of the world? And I do not want to buy a DVD of Kurt Loder’s best on MTV News. But that’s the competition. I’m at the top of the retail security game…but is that where I want to be?
How many times can I scare away the riff-raff from the CD listening booths? Now, what they’re doing, they’re just getting high right behind the store, walking in and tripping out as they listen to the music. It’s like watching Al Gore and Carson Daly trying to appear “loose”. If you ever see anyone in Virgin listening to Limp Biskit while trying to conduct the New York Philharmonic, those are the characters I’m talking about. But I’ve learned them a lesson or two. I’ve turned this ship into one hell of an operation.
Sure, it could have been a smoother ride, but I couldn’t have known the explosive dye packs would have so many explosives in them. They were a standard security measure. That little shoplifter never knew what hit him. We still can’t get his nose ring out of the marble checkout counter. His last act of vandalism, I guess. It’s fitting.
Maybe I need to get out of the game for awhile. Take some time off and worry about myself for a change. I could do it. Get away, go somewhere warm and isolated. Yeah, I can see it now, I…aw, who am I kidding? This is in my blood. I can tell you when the last N’Sync CD was stolen or when the last Celine Dion CD was purchased (it was…so long ago, and it looked like her husband; he bought it out of pity). I know this store back and forward, up and down, stem to stern. Except for the officer’s mess, but I don’t need to go in there…I bring my lunch. That’s it. They hired me to do a job, and I’ll be damned if I don’t give my all. Wait…yep, somebody just lifted a Wilco CD. Now I remember exactly why I do this job…because they make me mad.