Video store memoirs - part two

I remember the first time I was threatened with death by a customer, or at least a representative of this particular customer.

It was December, the snow was falling hard, and the store was like a refrigerator. It was getting towards the end of my shift when a stocky, well built man with facial hair that came from the Craig David school of beard construction (and several years before the R&B papster was old enough to construct a beard) walked into the store, browsed, picked up a couple of blockbuster titles and threw his membership card on the counter. "I'll have these, mate."

I typed in his details and gave him the news, "You've got overdue fees, mate."

"I sorted that out with your boss," he stated emphatically.

"Well, it hasn't been taken off your record. Unless you pay I can't give you these films. Sorry, but he hasn't put anything down or taken anything off."

"It's sorted."

"Mate, there's nothing I can do. Unless you pay, I can't do anything about it."

"I'm not your fucking mate, mate. And you can rent me these films. Actually, no, phone your fucking boss." His rising voice and twitchy movements made me feel fearful. The shop didn't have CCTV and I wasn't working with an assistant who could help me if the man became violent. I can handle myself in a fight but, the area the shop was in was a rough-arsed Northern town, many of these people were as hard as coffin nails.

Feeling nervous and angry at the same time I phoned my boss. He was not pleased to hear from me. "I'm at home. What is it?"

"I've got Mr W***** here, he claims he has paid off his overdue fees, but they are still on his record. Three films were overdue, it comes to nine quid."

"Him? I don't remember this, put him on."

I passed the phone across to the customer, who watched the scene playing out before him with an arrogant smirk. "He wants to talk to you."

They proceeded to get into an argument very quickly and the guy slammed down the phone and pointed at me, "He said serve me."

I don't like being pointed at, rudeness is something I particularly dislike, and I don't know many people who slam a phone down after getting their way. "No he didn't," I mumbled.

"Are you calling me a liar?"

I shrugged and remained silent. He pointed his finger and said with some relish, "You haven't heard the last of this."

Ten minutes later, what appeared to be another customer came into the store. He didn't browse, he came straight up to the counter and said, "He's gonna stab you."

"What? Who are you talking about?"

"N**** W****** stabbed a guy to death a few years ago. He got off on a technicality. He's spitting blood over you. If you apologise he might go easy on you."

"Are you his mate?" I asked with some sarcasm.

"I know him, yeah."

"And he sent you in here to say all this, right?" I continued derisively.

"No. I thought it best for you if I came in and warned you to watch your back. He's spitting blood, and he will fuck you up."

I felt a slight degree of nervousness, but nothing too unpleasant. But that changed when my boss phoned back just before I was about to close up and leave. "That guy earlier, what happened?" I told him the story and he fell silent.

My automatic response was to say, "What?"

"Er, I did say to serve him. I told him to put me back on the phone to you. He slammed it down before I had the chance."

"What?"

"He's a psycho. He stabbed a guy a couple of years ago."

My heart skipped a beat, actually my heart performed a Keith Moon drum solo in a chest that suddenly felt two sizes too small to contain it. "Killed him?" I managed to croak.

"No, but he put him in hospital."

"What about that argument?"

"I told him he had to pay, but once he started insisting I thought it best not to argue with him."

To cut a long story short. I locked the store within a matter of seconds. Alarm on. Door locked. Shutters down. Ran for my fucking car. Started it. Bolted. Under a minute!

For the next week, which was about as long as I worked there (I managed to convince the management to move me to another store), I spent my time going to and from work with only a baseball bat with nails hammered into it for company.

The guy spent most of that week sending people into the store to tell me what fate had in store for me. A couple of times he walked past the shop and made throat slitting signs.

That week was one of the most stressful of my life.

One night I could hear voices laughing and giggling as I was locking up the store. The laughter wasn't pleasant. And I couldn't see them, but I'm certain they could see me. I felt unbelievable fear, so palpable was my panic that every action I made was slow and clumsy and each action was followed by an overwhelming urge to vomit. So, with what little bluster I had left, I began swinging the baseball bat I was carrying around my head and smashed it against the bricks between the video store and the greengrocers next door. The nails cut the bricks to shit, pieces of brickwork shattered everywhere. The voices fell quiet.

However, I still ran for the car. And drove home like a fucking maniac. I jumped red light after red light, just so I could get home

When I moved stores a few days later I was almost tearful with relief. Although that relief didn't last long as I realised that the new shop was no better than the old one.

That whole incident, and everything that lead to it, still sends a chill down my spine to this day.