The customer stopped in front of us and huffed. “I’m hoping you guys can help me.”
“Sure,” Dub said. “How can we be of service?” His entire demeanor changed from a stoner looking for rape spiders to a helpful employee.
The man adjusted his sweatband. “I, uh, I’m looking for a, uh, well, a thing,” he stammered. He kept glancing at Ermina. His face grew red. “I mean, it’s not for me, you know? I’m picking it up for a friend and—“
Dub raised a hand politely to silence the man. “I understand, sir. A lot of people pick up gifts here.”
“Right,” the man nodded. “A gift. See, I’m looking for, uh, well an inflatable pig, I guess.”
“We have a variety of inflatable pigs,” Dub replied. “Is there a certain one you’re looking for? They’re in different aisles.”
“Yeah, yeah.” The guy looked nervously at Ermina again. “I’m, uh, looking for one with vibrating orifices. That, uh, recites portions of the tax code when you thrust into different, you know. Holes.”
This story seems to remind me of many post-midnight conversations the K7 floor had once upon a time. It is like a warm, blanket on a cold night. Like a warm, itchy, slightly moist, sour odored blanket that might have been lying on the floor in Phil's room at some point.
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