Wednesday, October 20, 2004

The Twins Part Deux

Well, I’ve spent since August trying to get a picture of these ladies, and this is the best I could do. This post might make a little more sense if you go back a few months to August, my last post on the twins. But to sum up, these women are our resident crazies at my store. They’ve been asked to leave twice now, because they like to bicker and they get really loud. Add to that their funny speech impediment and you’ve got yourselves a rare entertaining moment in retail. So when I heard over the walkie talkies somebody informing our security team that they were on their way in from being outside arguing and making a scene, I grabbed a camera and ran to the front doors, figuring this was my best shot at getting a picture. That proved to be difficult, as you will see. It seems that everyone else I work with wanted some free entertainment to spice up the drudgery of stocking shelves. So as the little ladies were busy looking through the Halloween candy, me and several other co-workers milled around and listened in. What we heard was them cussing each other out, and the kicker being when the feisty one told her sister, "you reek of alcohol!" Of course this sent us into a fit of giggles, because to the ordinary passer-by, you would have thought maybe the twins spent their afternoon having cocktails, with as loud as they were screaming about reeking of alchol. But I knew better.

I’ve found out that part of their obsessive-compulsive-ness consists of bathing in rubbing alcohol when they come in contact with anything out in public. And rubbing alcohol is one of the mystery items that the one twin carries in their secret stash paper bag (I realized that day that they had upgraded their stash bag from plain brown paper to a lovely metallic gold gift bag). Whenever they touch anything in a public place, they take that shit out and pour it over their hands.

At this point our security team were on the floor laughing with us, and I began to conspire with everyone about getting their picture. A few brave souls took my camera and inconspicuously tried to snap a few shots. But every time the camera was aimed at them, one of them turned around and looked right at the would-be photographer. I even had the flash turned off.

Eventually they meandered their way to the other side of the store where my department is, and in true secret agent style, I followed them, ducking through clothes racks and peeking around end caps. I knew the game was almost up, because they were making their way over to electronics to be checked out, which is where I work. So I handed off the camera to one of my work buddies, and he took over with the pictures when they were ready to check out. Checking out was trying for them, because my register was blocked by one of the big carts we use to put merchandise on (probably the same kind that almost ran over Julie the other day). Because they wouldn’t touch it, the one kind of kicked it out of the way with her foot as the other one coached her, hissing, "get that dirty thing away from me." This day they were buying some brown paper bags, believe it or not. Their total was around a buck, and the twin-in-charge handed me a 20 and asked me (as always) if she could have the change in ones. I obliged, and they were on their way back to the front of the store. On that short walk, they started with the screaming again, which brought security over. The security manager told them very nicely that they were disturbing the other customers, and if they were going to continue to make a scene, he would have to escort them out. I don’t know what happened after that. I do know that the last time one of my managers asked them to leave, they cursed at her and told her they were going to put a spell on her. She told me that after that she didn’t sleep for two weeks. But she’s voting for Bush, so I’m not going to take anything she says too seriously. Of course I couldn’t get a good picture of them either, and we probably took around 6 pictures total. Every single one was out of focus. Spooky.

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