... false arrest

So anyway, Sir Punk's name is Jeremy and he's from Woollongong. He told me that he settled on buying Les Miserables because he played Gavroche in a stage production when he was a kid. We had a great little chat and before he left, I gave him the address of the blog so he could check himself out.

What I didn't give him amongst all the chit chat was his receipt of purchase.

Five minutes later, Janelle from The Other Bookshop came in and picked up one of the classics. She brought it over to me and said, "You didn't just sell a bikie looking guy one of these books, did you?"

Oops! They sell the same edition there and when he went into their shop straight after mine, she saw him walk out with the one I'd just sold him and called security to look out for him. Oh dear. She hotfooted it back to The Other Bookshop and called security again to say something along the lines of "Abort! Abort! Mission to apprehend the only punk in North Queensland has been aborted!"

I thought it was kind of funny until bout five minutes later when up rocks Mark the Security Guard holding a familiar copy of Les Mis. Obviously, Janelle's message didn't reach them soon enough.

Jeez, YES! I did sell the bikie looking punk a copy of Les Mis. If it's so unbelievable that he would buy the damn thing, why the hell would he nick it?

I said just that to Mark but in a nicer way and he said they were holding Punk Jeremy from Woollongong at the Police Beat office. I felt real bad about it; it was because I got chatting about the blog and Les Mis and all of that that I didn't get him a receipt and he walked out without a bag.

I'm known as a bit of a soft touch in the centre - I am always saying things like, "I'm not that worried about locking up the shop - who's going to go to the trouble of breaking in to steal books that they couldn't even sell at full price in the first place?"

"Mate!" says Paul, the hardened Security Guy. "Mate, they'd steal anything! They'd steal the sole off your shoe if you walk too slow around here."

I don't think Mark really quite believed me that the guy had bought the book. I think he thought I was having a compassion attack and was lying to protect him. I said, "Mate, I took a picture of the man holding up his book!"

Mark said, "You what?"

I struggled valiantly to make my phone cough up the photo in question - usually I would wait to get The Princess Bookaholic to work my recalcitrant tech gadgets for me but she wasn't around and there was a Punk In Distress being unjustly detained.

I got the photo on screen finally and Mark cracked a smile as he looked at it. "Well, that's proof I guess," he said shaking his head at the oddness of me having a photo of the punk.

When we got to Police Beat, Paul my other favourite Security Guy was waiting outside the door with a look like thunder on his face. Apparently Jeremy had been somewhat aggravated at being dragged into the cop shop and he and Paul had got their masculinities a trifle ruffled; they were in the midst of a little to and fro-ing involving terms such as 'dick-head' and 'fuckwit'.

Paul was NOT happy to be told he had to let Jeremy go. He looked at me and said, "He bought it???'

Yes. For the hundredth time. The Punk bought a book!

"Bullshit!" said Paul and grabbed the camera off me to have a look. "Ok. Give me the book."

I pulled it out of his reach. "Uh-uh."

"I'll give it back to him," he said in the same tone as he might have used to say 'I'll shove it up his arse.'

"I'll give it back to him, no worries - but first I'm going to keep him here for an hour so he misses his bus." He grabbed the book off me.

"You can't do that."

"Why not? He's being a cockhead!"

"Paul! Because he didn't DO anything!" I grabbed the book back again and headed into Police Beat. There sat Jeremy in the waiting room, leaning forward, elbows on thighs, looking at the floor. He looked up at me like I was his long lost mother. I bent over and patted his cheek and said, "Oh, I'm sorry about that! It's my fault I didn't give you the receipt."

As we left, Paul and Jeremy exchanged final little verbal zingers. Dickhead. Prick. That kind of thing. Mark smiled and shook his head.

Outside, Jeremy said, "I was saying to them, 'The lady even took my photo!' They didn't believe me!"

"Well, I can't say I blame them - I don't believe I took it either."

What are the odds that the first time I talk myself into asking a stranger for his photo for the blog that I would need it within half an hour? What are the odds that the first time I have any business whatsoever with security regarding shoplifting that I would have photographic proof to back up a story that Paul was disinclined to believe?

Just before he went off with his book, now in a plastic shopping bag, he said, "I hate it that just because I look like I do, they think I can't read."

He's not worried that they might think he's a thug. Or that he might scare little old ladies with his blue and leopard print mohawk and his safety pinned ears. He just doesn't like it that someone would have the audacity to think he's illiterate! God, love 'im!

did you really have to bring that up?

Today, a small girl vomited all over the floor of my shop.

I was on duty by myself and I heard a plaintiff voice cry out from the depths of our cavernous shop, "Excuse me, could I have some assistance down here?" In the very back aisle of the store, a small grandma type woman was struggling under the weight of the heaving retching child in her arms.

Ugh.

I hurried to her side and instinctively extended my hands to help her in any way I could. Then I realised that she, the child and a three foot radius of shop floor were covered in red lumpy vomit.

Double ugh.

I instinctively retracted my hands again.

"She's not very well," said the poor Grandma.

Hmmm. You can say that again.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," said the poor Grandma.

"That's fine," I said. "You just get her home. I'll take care of this."

Translation: Get your barfing granddaughter out of my shop.

I called Customer Service and asked if they could send a cleaner around to fix it for me. Well, no, Customer Service explained - the cleaners won't clean inside a shop. It's not their job.

"But," I said, "If you ask Jo, she'll come and help me. She is the GOOD Cleaning Lady."

Customer Service explained that they couldn't call Good Cleaning Lady Jo directly. The request would have to be radioed through to the EVIL Boss Cleaning lady who is none too happy at the moment because her company just lost the cleaning contract on the whole centre.

I wondered how Customer Service could tell the Evil Boss Cleaning Lady was particularly unhappy. She has always been one of the most bizarre and miserable women I have ever had the opportunity to observe in her natural habitat. Evil boss cleaning lady takes her job description seriously and it is NOT in her job description to clean up after any of the staff of any of the shops. In fact, we are not even supposed to put our rubbish in the bins. Those bins are provided for customers, says Evil Boss Cleaning Lady. I once put a small piece of cardboard in one of the centre's rubbish bins. She saw me do it and took the cardboard out of the bin. She very deliberately placed it on the floor all the while looking me in the eye. It was like some kind of crazy challenge.

I dare you to put your rubbish in my bins again.

She straightened slowly, still eyeballing me like John Wayne, in any number of his movies, putting the uppity heathen Injuns back in their place.

I double dare you.

"I'm afraid you're on your own with the vomit situation, dude," said Customer Service. Yes. It's true. The girl at Customer Service calls me 'dude'.

But my question remains - what could this woman do that could possibly make her seem even more unhappy than usual? It's kind of scary really.

I was on duty by myself, as I said, so I couldn't go out to get cleaning gear. I have the basic equipment in the shop of course - a broom, a cloth, a bottle of disinfectant spray - but nothing of the caliber required to combat the kind of damage a projectile vomiter can inflict in a matter of seconds.

And the smell! The smell was permeating the entire space. Customers were streaming out the door. I had to do something!

It's amazing how much you can achieve without inhaling when you must. On my haunches, armed only with tissues and Orange Magic spray clean, I managed to mop up almost all of the mess.

Then as I stood up, I looked out through the front of my shop and saw the cavalry riding down the corridor to my rescue. Well, actually, it was two cleaning people - Good Cleaning Lady Jo and Nice Cleaning Guy Brian pushing their cleaning carts. They were accompanied by Kent, the Centre Manager.

Well, that little spew had certainly caused a kerfuffle, hadn't it? Kent is pretty cool. He strides about the centre with his trusty walkie talkie ever to his ear, just about the only man in our small tropical city who still wears a tie to work. He made a Kent joke as he approached. "What's this I hear? You vomited all over your floor? What'd you do that for"

"I got bored," I replied. "You know how it is."

Everyone thought this was pretty funny. I said to Jo, "I thought you weren't allowed to clean in my shop."

"Kent told me to," she replied innocently. "What was I supposed to do - say no to KENT???"

Kent's chest expanded a little at the mention of his power.

Jo and Brian went forth with mops, both wet and dry, and small spray cans filled with overpoweringly pleasant odours.

As they finished swiping their mops back and forth, ridding me at last of the contents of that small child's over full stomach, I said, "Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you! You are so good to me."

Jo said matter of factly, "Well, you're always good to me too."

It's true. Just that morning I gave her a tiny discount on some books for her kids. It dosn't matter that the amount is small, it's just that everyone likes the acknowledgement that what they do is appreciated. Same with the security guards. All of them repay me by looking after me above and beyond the call of duty.

A lot of people think that Kent and those like him have the most important jobs in these kind of places - but the truth is, Kent went away for a holiday and nobody even noticed he was gone.

Try going a week or even a day without cleaning staff and security. God love 'em.