At the same time that I was DJing, I was also working a job at a DVD shop. Well, shop is probably too strong a term. It was technically a kiosk; a freestanding stall in the middle of the shopping centre’s walkway.
It was a pretty cushy job. We had almost no business, so there wasn’t very much to do. I have to admit, I spent a lot of time on Wikipedia.
As it turned out, the shopping centre was near an outpatient centre for a mental facility. Our regulars consisted of people who were … a little bit left of centre. There was one couple of guys who were quite unique.
The taller of the two was obsessed with action films, specifically of the ‘80s variety. He would ask question after question about what action films we had, often picking up cases and asking if they “any good” (by which he meant “does it have many explosions?”).
I think his happiest day was when he found Van Damme’s Bloodsport on our shelves at a discounted price. And although he never had the money to pay for it, I also made sure to keep a copy of the Rambo trilogy box set for him, as he liked turning it over in his hands and examining it in detail.
His friend, by comparison, was short, stout and almost completely silent. He reminded me a great deal of a male-version of Marilyn from Northern Exposure (pictured below); he had a quietly serene nature, coupled with a habit of staring intensely at you for long periods of time. I eventually become fascinated with his eyelashes – each of them looked like they were individually applied.
Separate to this pair – and I’m sure unrelated to the outpatient centre – was an elderly gentleman who’d come in on a weekly basis to troll through the discount films and ask if I’d seen them. He had terrible breath and body odour, and would often spend up to an hour quizzing me on classic movies, never getting beyond the question of whether or not I’d seen them. Certainly, he started off innocently enough, but it wasn’t long before he was coupling the questions about my knowledge of movies with tidbits about the sex lives of stars of yesteryear.
“She was a mad rooter!” He’d assert about Gloria Swanson or Ingrid Bergman. “She was gaggin’ for it! Loved to fuck!” He would then pick up a new movie and start all over again. “I’ve heard she was a sex maniac! Mad rooter! Always up for it!”
For the most part, the high-maintenance customers tended to drop in separately of one another, so you could deal with them easily. But I’ll always remember the day when the Action Duo met the Mad Rooter.
The kiosk was rectangular, with customers able to surround it at all sides if they so wished. The Mad Rooter was at the bargain bin on the far-left corner. The Action Duo were on the corner at the far right. I watched on in bemused curiosity and mild horror as the Action Duo made their way around the kiosk, making their way to the spot where the Mad Rooter was muttering to himself about so-and-so being “a right go-er”.
It was like watching hydrogen meet an open flame. Thankfully, the Mad Rooter kept his sexual proclivities to himself, but that didn’t keep him from asking his standard questions.
“Have you seen this? Have you seen this one?”
“Is it any good? Got much action? I like action.”
“What’ve you got there? Universal Soldier? No, mate, you don’t want that! You want a classic! You want Sunset Boulevard!”
“Is it any good? Got much action? I like action?”
“Have you seen it? Have you seen that one? Seen Sunset Boulevard?”
“I don’t know. Is it any good? Got much action? Many explosions?”
All the while, the serene sidekick of the Action Duo stared at me, a quizzical expression on his face, a half-smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
It was like time stood frozen. The continuum had kicked over into a loop and I was to be stuck here forevermore in a cycle of explosions and real go-ers.
But then, as if sensing my inner turmoil, Serenity took his friend by the hand and quietly, calmly spoke. “Gary, we have to go. Water Rats is on in half-an-hour.”
And with that, the flux was broken. The Action Duo made their way from the kiosk, and the Mad Rooter flipped through only a few more titles and asked me if I knew about the sex habits of their stars before he bid me farewell and vanished to places unknown.
I shook my head, amazed at how narrowly I had averted falling into some kind of sociological black hole.
I returned to my Pepsi and chicken nuggets, and looked up Sunset Boulevard on Wikipedia.
I had heard Gloria Swanson was a mad rooter …
No comments:
Post a Comment