"COME IN! NOW! SPEND MORE MONEY NOW!"

2:30 am:

The phone rings and I answer.
"This is Dave, how can I help you?"

It's a woman who is calling from an apartment complex across the street, at least a hundred yards away. She says our TVs are keeping her awake.

There are TVs at each of the gas-pumping stations, playing news and running ads saying things like, "Cold? Come on in for a hot cup of coffee!" . . . "Don't forget snacks for the road! We carry an assortment of favorite snacks and beverages!" . . .  "Come in!" . . . NOW! . . "YES! You! Come in!" . . . "Spend more money!" . . .

Seems a bit Orwellian.

They're pretty quiet. Granted, I have bad hearing, but I can hardly hear them 20 feet away. Others, with good hearing, might have difficulty from 30 feet away. It's difficult to believe they could keep someone awake from a football-fields distance on a brutally cold night when I imagine windows must be shut. 

Still, I was empathetic.

"I am sorry to hear that," I say. "I do not know how to shut them off, but I will pass it on to the manager in the morning. Would you like to give me your name and number in case she wants to call you?"
"NO!" she snapped. "I want them shut off NOW!"
"I am sorry," I repeat, "But I do not know how to shut them off. The best I can do is pass your complaint on to my manager in the morning."
"NO!" she snaps again. "SHUT THEM OFF NOW!"
"I am sorry, but I don't know how to shut them off, I will have to wait until the manager arrives in the morning."
"NO! CALL YOUR MANAGER NOW!" she yells.
"I am sorry, but I am not going to call and wake up my manager right now, but I assure you I will let her know in the morning."
"CALL HER NOW! RIGHT NOW!"
"I am sorry, but I will not do that," I say.
"THEN  I WILL CALL THE POLICE!" she says.

It just so happened there was a policeman at the store, chatting with me. He overheard my conversation and I explained. He said I handled it well. It wasn't long before he gets a call on his radio; it's in regards to the woman complaining about the noise from our TVs.  The policeman explained to me how, in response to such complaints, he will use a device that measures decibel levels to see if the noise is in violation of the law and could reasonably be considered a nuisance. He said our TVs were clearly not in violation and he, too, wondered how someone might hear them from the apartments across the street. The traffic on the road between the store and the apartments is far louder.

He did point out to me that our TVs are kicked on by a motion sensor when someone pulls in for gas, and they shut off when nobody is there. (I did not know that.)  At two of the stations the sensors were not working and the TVs remained on, nonstop.

I let the manager know (when morning came). They will soon be fixed.

In the meantime, perhaps nocturnal subliminal messages will kick in and the woman will come in and purchase lots of snacks and beverages.

"COME IN! SPEND MORE MONEY NOW! . . . COME IN! NOW! SPEND MORE MONEY NOW! . . . COME IN! NOW! SPEND MORE MONEY NOW . . . COME IN . . . "

Flirting for Beer

A lot of people try to persuade and bribe me into selling them beer after 2 am, which is illegal in Montana. (Most of them are so obnoxiously drunk I wouldn't sell them beer even if it were before 2 am, as it's also illegal to sell beer to people who are obviously intoxicated.)

One guy offered me $100 if I would sell him a six-pack of Budweiser. Another guy threw a $50 bill on the counter and walked out with a 24-pack of Pabst. (I followed him out. After explaining to him he was on camera and I had his license plate number he reluctantly returned the beer and took his money back.)

But my favorite happened a few nights ago:

A good looking college-age couple came in and brought a 12-pack of Coors in bottles up to the counter.

"I'm sorry," I said, "But I am not allowed to sell beer after 2:00."
"Oh come on!," said the woman. "It's my boyfriend's birthday and we need to celebrate."
I looked at the guy and said, "Happy birthday, but I am sorry I can't sell beer after 2:00"
"Don't be an asshole," the guy said.

The woman cut him off and looked at me in a very sexy, flirtatious manner.

"Oh come on, won't you sell beer to me?" she said.
"Are you trying to flirt with me for beer?" I asked.

She smiled.

"Well, if you've got it, use it, right?"
"I suppose," I said, "But you got the wrong guy. Your boyfriend would have a better chance at that, but it still won't work."

To which her boyfriend immediately responded: "Hey, I ain't no faggot dude!"

The woman holds the beer out over the floor and says, "What if I drop this?"
"Well, I suppose I would be cleaning up the mess while the police are on the way," I replied.
"I would just say it was an accident," she said.

I point to one of the cameras.

"Smile, you're on candid camera," I say. "The police can watch and listen to this whole conversation." 

They put the beer down on the counter, and they both call me an asshole.

"Happy birthday!" I shout to the guy as they're leaving.

I Did Not Do the Right Thing (I Should Have Called the Police): A Follow-Up

The other night a Missoula city policeman stopped by the store to introduce himself.

“I understand you are a Marine,” he said.
“Yes, indeed. How did you know that?” I asked.
“Well, I happened to read a blog of yours. . . ”

Turns out, he found my blog through a mutual Facebook friend. He, too, is a Marine ("once a Marine, always a Marine") having served active duty as a musician in a Marine Corps field band. It was a cold night -- our first heavy snow of the winter with an arctic front arriving – and so business was slow. He stayed and chatted for awhile.

He’s a nice guy, and obviously a good, dedicated, knowledgeable and professional policeman. The conversation eventually came around to my post, “Did I Do the Right Thing? (Should I Have Called the Police?)” which he took particular interest in.

The Missoula Police Department is well-trained on domestic violence issues; it is one of their top priorities. Although the officer was not at all judgmental (and told me several times “Don’t beat yourself up over it”), after speaking with him at length and learning more about the issue I feel I should have called the police.

Here are some statistics:

* An estimated 1.3 million women are victims of physical assault by an intimate partner each year.
* About 85% of domestic violence victims are women.
* One in every four women will experience domestic violence in their lifetime.
* One in six women and one in 33 men involved in intimate partner violence results in more than 18.5 million mental health care visits in the United States.
* More than 40 percent of the women murdered in the United States were killed by an intimate partner.
* Up to 60% of perpetrators of intimate partner violence also abuse any children who live in the household.
* Boys who witness domestic violence are twice as likely to abuse their own partners and children when they become adults.
* On average, it takes about six attempts before a victim is able to break out of a domestic violence situation -- and that's if they receive help and are trying.
* In Montana alone there are an estimated 11, 500 victims of domestic violence a year and about a dozen of those result in death.

Domestic violence and abuse is usually accompanied by emotionally abusive and controlling behavior and is part of a systematic pattern of dominance and control -- often resulting in physical injury, psychological trauma and sometimes murder. The consequences of domestic violence can cross generations and last a lifetime.

Having myself spent nearly five years in a relationship with a bipolar, verbally abusive alcoholic I am, unfortunately, intimately familiar with the repeating cycles of abuse: A buildup to abuse when tension rises until an incident occurs; A reconciliation stage in which the abuser may be kind and loving; A period of calm during which the abused person may be hopeful that the situation will change . . . then the tension builds and the cycle starts again.

Most cases of domestic violence are never reported to the police and the cycle can continue with dangerous and deadly results. 

The officer who stopped by the store explained to me that when police respond to a domestic violence incident (regardless if it’s an opposite sex relationship, same sex or otherwise) they evaluate the situation to determine who is the predominant aggressor, take the predominant aggressor into custody to diffuse the situation and protect the victim, file a report and refer the victim to counselors, domestic violence program advocates and other programs that provide information and support and are experienced in providing assistance, creating safety plans and helping identify options appropriate for various individuals and situations. If necessary, they can also help find safe accommodations, housing, and obtain legal and financial assistance.

If nothing else, there is a report on record so the police, court, advocates and others are aware of the situation in case the cycle continues and escalates.

I hope to never witness such a thing again, but if I do I will call the police -- it can help break the cycle and save lives.

(Special thanks to the Missoula officer who took time to visit and explain things in a very nonjudgmental, informative, courteous and professional manner; we are fortunate to have a great, dedicated, responsive police department here in Missoula, Montana.)  

Addendum: After I posted this, a friend pointed out that if I had called the police, the woman may have left. I discussed that with the policeman. If such an incident were to occur again, I would do what I could to comfort the person and would call the police from the backroom so they would not know. The police could then take it from there.

Did I Do the Right Thing? (Should I Have Called the Police?)

Just after midnight I stepped out to look at the moon and a woman arrives, walking, with blood on her face. She is maybe 25 or so and seems drunk. Despite temperatures in the low 20s she is wearing a green T-shirt and light black jacket, both of which are also stained red with some blood. She asks for a cigarette.

"Are you okay?" I ask.
"Yes," she says, and starts crying.
"What happened to you?"
"Nothing."
"Did you fall down?"
"No."
"Did someone hit you?"

Her crying grows into heavy sobbing.

She tells me that her boyfriend hit her so she left their apartment and walked down to the store. I invite her to come inside, get warm, have some coffee, wash the blood off and offer to call the police. She begs me to not call the police. About then, a regular custumor -- who is a very nice guy -- pulls in and sees us, still standing out in the parking lot, and offers to help in anyway he can. She asks if he can give her a ride up South Hills a half-mile to her mother's house.

And so he does.

The incident still haunts me: Did I do the right thing? Should I have called the police?

The Asshole Hunters

About 4:15 am, soon after finishing the daily report, I head to the back of the store to make coffee and finish cleaning the cappuccino machine when two elk hunters arrive. They fit all the stereotypes; living cartoons -- Elmer Fudds, only with NRA hats and Cabelas camouflage jackets.

"You don't have coffee made yet?" the larger, more obese of the two says.
"Not yet, just getting to it if you don't mind waiting a few minutes," I reply.

I get a pot of Columbian started. 

"Do you realize it's a Saturday morning during hunting season?" he asks.
"I'm well aware of that," I say. "Been a busy morning, but will have some freshly brewed here in a few moments."
"I ain't got all morning," he says. "Elk don't sit around waiting all day."

I point to the cappuccino machine. "I can have that put back together pretty quickly and you can have some of that if you want?"

He shrugs his shoulders and nods. I assume it means yes, so I get it up and running in less than a minute. He puts his cup under the French-Vanilla-flavored spout, pushes the button, and the cream-colored liquid begins dispensing. He quickly pulls his cup away while the coffee continues pouring all over the counter and floor I had just cleaned a half-hour earlier.

"That looks like crap," he says. "That ain't French Vanilla."
"Yes, it is French Vanilla," I reply. "Why did you let it spill all over the counter and floor?"

About that same time, the other Fudd decides to remove the coffee pot before it's finished brewing and Columbian coffee also spills all over the counter and floor.

No apologies. Not even an "oops." Instead, the more obese Fudd says, "Don't you got any coffee ready?"

"I was trying," I said. "But you've spilled half of it, and don't even seem to give a shit. I just finished cleaning all of this . . . "
"Ain't that your job?" obese Fudd says.

My response: "Get the fuck out of this store. NOW!"

They did.

"Why are you looking at me like I'm stupid?"

There's an obnoxious guy in line, waiting to pay for a six-pack of Bud Ice he's holding in one hand while talking loudly on his phone in the other hand. I'm too busy to pay attention to the conversation but hear the word "fuck" a lot. He seems to be offending the other customers, particularly the nice, older woman I am helping who keeps glancing his way and shaking her head. I get the guy's attention and ask him to please keep it down and watch his language. He shoots me a dirty look.

When he gets to the register I ring up his beer and a Swisher Sweet cigar he asks for. He fumbles his credit card while getting it out of his wallet and struggles to pick it up off the counter.

"Why are you looking at me like I'm stupid?" he asks.
"I'm not looking at you like you're stupid," I reply. "I am looking at you to determine if you are drunk and clearly you are."
"So what?" he says.
"So I can't sell you beer," I say. "Sorry, but I am not allowed to sell alcohol to anyone who is clearly intoxicated."

I subtract the price of the six-pack from the total and put it aside.

"Would you still like the cigar?" I ask.
"You're really not going to sell me beer?" 
"No. Sorry."
"Why are you being rude to me?"
"I am not being rude to you."
"You are being very rude," he says. "You're being an asshole."
"Look, it was you who was being rude while talking loudly on your phone and cussing and making other customers uncomfortable," I say. "Now would you like your cigar or not?"
"Why are you looking at me like I'm stupid?" he asks again.
"I am not looking at you like you're stupid. I am looking at you like you're drunk. I am not selling you beer. Now do you want the cigar or not?"

He thinks about it.

"No," he says. "I don't like how rude you're being. I will take my business elsewhere."
"Okay," I say, "You do that. Are you driving?"
"No, I'm walking."
"Good," I say. "Be careful."
"Thank you," he says. "That is very kind of you."

From the Graveyard: All Hallows' Eve Edition

On most nights if someone wearing a mask walked into the store I'd be a bit nervous. Last night it was fun at first, but quickly became annoying. 

The traditional focus of All Hallows' Eve revolved around the theme of using "humor and ridicule to confront the power of death."  In a modern-day American college town the theme seems to be “dress up and get obnoxiously shit-faced drunk.”  I used humor, ridicule and even anger to confront the irritatingly inebriated.

Early in the evening it was mostly a typical, happy and pleasant assortment of ghosts, goblins and monsters stopping by for beer and cigarettes. There was also a sexy, barely-dressed gladiator and a pretty cute astronaut.

After the bars closed things got scary, creepy, frightening and downright evil. A Superman got in a fight with a clown (the clown was getting the best of him before I broke it up).  A prostitute threw up on the floor. A witch got bitchy because I wouldn’t sell her brew after 2:00.  A hot devil knocked over a display of candy and spilled 44-ounzes of Mountain Dew. A Playboy bunny got angry and cussed out a priest who was hitting on her. A fake cop passed out in the bathroom requiring a real cop to come get him out. 

There were still kings, fairies, vampires, zombies, axe murders and lumberjacks coming in at 4:00 am when hunters were arriving – at least I think they were real hunters (difficult to tell nowadays).   

The graveyard was hellishly, ghoulishly full and alive all hollows’ eve. 

It was the night of the living dead.