Video games weren’t really accepted outside of nerds and children in the mid 90′s, which was just as well, because I thought I had something to offer nerds and children. Nevermind the fact that “something” was “scorn”.
I had a special hatred for the parents of the nerds and kids, even more than the nerds and kids themselves.
You see, the nerds and kids were generally pretty easy to placate. The kids wanted to play Mortal Kombat II and other games that they weren’t allowed to play at home, and the nerds just wanted someone to talk to.
The parents, on the other hand, thought I was a goddamn babysitter, and when they were done shopping at any of the stores that weren’t FuncoLand, they’d come back to collect their children / nerds, and bitch at me for not being a good babysitter. As though I gave a rat’s ass about whether little Skylar was allowed to see the slightest tinge of Dana Plato’s nipple in Night Trap.
Frankly, if the little douchebag wanted to wait that long for SegaCD to load and then endure the steaming log that is Night Trap, he deserved the payoff, in my estimation.
My favorite thing in the world though, was when an angry parent wanted to speak with the manager. Welcome to the Terrordome, Mom. I am the fucking manager, and I’m not taking your shit today.
Why they made me manager is debatable. It could be because they couldn’t find someone less ambitious who would also accept less money. Or it could be the geek musk coming off of me that let them know I’d give Funcoland some nerd credibility for the first time ever. Maybe it was my complete nonchalance toward the feelings of others. No matter how you slice it, I was given virtually no training other than the following:
- Nobody can return anything ever. We’ll “buy back” whatever they want at prices that would make a pawnbroker blush.
- Sell lots of cleaners and Game Informer subscriptions.
- If #2 doesn’t happen, someone’s getting fired.
- Don’t steal games. Or if you do, find another employee / a customer / a stray animal to take the blame.
- If you feel guilty about stealing games, just sell yourself a bunch of copies of Super Mario Brothers + Duck Hunt for $0.66, because our inventory control is just a count of how many cartridges we have, not what they actually are.
Why? Because fuck you is why.
One morning, I rolled in around quarter after 10 to open the store (yes, we opened at 10, and I was supposed to be there at 9:30, and fuck you fire me if you don’t like it because I can work anywhere and do nothing for what you pay me to have to get up in the morning…) only to discover an angry woman and her child waiting at the door.
They were both peering in to the windows, like people tend to do when they’re looking inside a new car, trying to read the odometer, or catch a glimpse of the radio. They were looking to see if someone was actually in the store, which I guess I understand in retrospect. Be that as it may, I was behind them, and Funcoland did not open until I say so. So, I unlocked the door, then locked it behind me, continuing through the back door, where I decided to smoke a few cigarettes to get me ready for whatever insanity she was going to try and rope me in to.
10:30 ticks by. Maybe 10:40. It was a long time ago, so I’m estimating. Anyway, we were open for business, and she did not come to browse. Clutching a beat up Funcoland bag* in one hand, and her son in the other, she marched to the register. She’d be waiting, because turning on the demo systems was part of my morning routine, and she clearly didn’t come to buy a cleaner or Game Informer subscription, so fuck her.
Her patience was wearing, and before I could fully contemplate what would happen if I just walked out the door and went home, she confronted me.
“Can you help me?”
“It depends. How can I help you?”
“Tell him.” (to her son)
“I… I… I got… I got…”
The poor boy was inconsolable.
“He got a bad report card.”
“Well, we don’t sell good report cards here. I’m pretty sure we don’t have educational games here, but I can check if you wan-”
“He needs to give you back his Game Boy.”
By now, the kid was practically fetal in the middle of my store, and I wasn’t remotely interested in being the person responsible for the shitty summer he was about to have.
“Is it broken?”
“No. I have a receipt.”
“I’m sorry, but we don’t accept returns.”
“I have a receipt.”
“Yes, I see that, but we don-”
“I HAVE A RECEIPT AND I JUST BOUGHT THIS LAST WEEK!”
“Ma’am. Could you please look at the back of your receipt?”
“Okay.”
“What does it say?”
“It says ‘No returns unless defective’ but..”
“That’s the policy ma’am.”
“I JUST BOUGHT IT!”
“Mmm hmm.”
“You won’t take it back?”
“No.”
Amazingly, the kid had a miraculous recovery.
“Then I think I need to talk to the manager.”
“Hi.”
“Could you please get the manager?”
“Yes.”
“Well?”
“Hi. I’m the manager. How can I help you?”
“You’re the manager?”
“Yep.”
“Well, who is above you?”
“Jesus, if you’re the religious type. Our planet’s atmosphere, if you prefer a scientific view.”
“You don’t have a manager?”
“I do, I guess. But that manager is only here when I’m not, and I’m here like, all the time. Would you like to sell it back?”
Of course, offering to buy something back was probably the meanest trick I could have played. It sounds so helpful, when in reality, even thieves who would bring in stolen Super Nintendos felt like I was ripping them off when I’d offer them about 25 cents on the dollar. Thirty cents if they wanted store credit.
It worked, and she left in tears. The kid seemed happy, so I chalked it up as one happy customer, locked the door, and went on the lunch hour I imagined myself entitled to.
