Sometimes people mistake me for a big box store clerk and get angry when I call them impertinent. But I'm happy to report that the great majority of my customers are very pleasant. And since I enjoy calling rude people names, I figure that means that I like all my customers.
Of course some are sort of scary like the woman without pants who came in last week to sell me a book, and sure her flannel shirt was long but not long enough. And the gypsy woman with electrical white hair and Alice Cooper-caught-in-the-rain make-up who drinks too much and keeps trying to leave the store through the window.
And sometimes I hear things that I know will stay with me until I die, like the woman who insisted that human twins sometimes eat each other in the mother's womb. Now fetal cannibalism is an alarming concept but far worse is the succession of middle-aged guys who have been leaning on my counter telling me about their weird medical problems and how I'm probably suffering from all their creepy afflictions too but I just don't know it. Well here's the thing, I don't want to know and one day when the doctor tells me I'm doomed because they didn't detect the damned thing early enough I'll say Feh! and pour another drink.
Note to wife: I want my tombstone to say "You're Next, And It Really Really Hurts."