The mere fact that the public knows about this "incident" could cost me my job. But, I see this as a public service. No one should have to work under these conditions and I pray that no one falls into the trap that is lovingly called "keepsake collecting" by addicts. That sounds warm and loving, right? Well, the ugly truth is anything but.
It was morning. That's about all my tired mind could register that day. And it was cold. February or something. I parked outside the store, rubbed my eyes, and dug my keys out of my purse. It was a Saturday, usually a slow day.
The cold bit at my lips and I buried my hands deep into my coat. Suddenly, and without mercy, some stranger grabbed my arm jolting me from my happy, groggy state. She was big, strong, and very angry. A cheer rose from the crowd gathered around the door of the store as she wrenched me forward into the mob of keepsake collectors.
"It's 10:01," she snapped. "Why haven't you opened yet?" Her eyes were bulging. And any moment now I figured I would be beaten and the store keys plucked from my dead hands. The mob closed in. I backed up and slammed into the glass doors. The large woman still had a firm hold of me.
"I..." The words caught in my throat. I was calculating the best way to make a fast break and run screaming to my car. But, I was blockaded on all sides.
Suddenly, the door behind me opened, I was pulled inside and I had to beat off grasping hands and flying purses. Now that I was safely inside, I surveyed my injuries. Only a few bruises and a jammed finger this time. Beats the black eye and traction from the last time. I brushed myself off and turned to my savior.
"Thanks, Tony. I thought I was done for."
"No problemo. Better you than me." Tony is much more level-headed about these things. The mob was still pounding on the glass. My heart was still racing. Any moment now I expected the guns to be drawn from under the collector's books and tear- gas canisters to fly from the large purses of all those keepsake-bent old ladies.
Tony jumped over the checkout counter and pretended to be cowering in fear behind it.
"Ha, ha. Very funny." I threw off my coat, stashing it behind the counter with my car keys. "That was actually scary." I was in no mood to be made fun of for reacting the natural human way to a pack of wolves. Tony laughed heartily at my fear.
I sauntered over to the wall with the light switches, making sure to let the rabid dogs outside see that I wasn't afraid of them. As I passed, I received several obscene gestures and a few offers of money to get moving faster.
The store was shadowed in that relaxing, serene early morning light. Tony glanced over at me with the usual questioning look. His eyes said, "Are ya gonna do it? We could still make a clean break for Panama City!"
But I denied the urge and flipped the lights on. It was like I just turned on a psychedelic carnival. Lights glared, music blared, and the people outside raised a rousing chorus of "It's Finally Opening Time." I looked up and was blinded by the Snow Buddy Bunny Beanie World-Wide Release Today! sign. It was a beacon of light to all those lost in the addictive world of collecting. It said, "Buy me and you can stop. Just one more. You know you want me." It turned my stomach.
"So, seeing as how you were late..." Tony began.
"No way. I've been bouncer twice in a row. It's your turn." I was stern and serious. No more broken limbs for me.
"I just thought..."
I shot a steely glance at him. He put his head down and looked at his feet to avoid it. I took my post behind the cash register, hand poised, ready for the attack. Tony walked sullenly to the doors. The crowd was deafening. Old ladies body-checked each other for a prime spot in front of the door. The large woman, obviously the instigator of the lynch mob, stood, spread-eagle, pressed against the glass doors. The carnage was so bad I had to look away.
For the first time, I saw Tony shake. He gave me a forlorn look, I narrowed my eyes and stared back. He took a deep breath, rushed the door, flipped the lock, and retreated a few feet.
I could say the doors burst open, or flew off their hinges. But, it was more like the air lock of a space ship being flung open. The crazed women seemed to be sucked in by a sudden air pressure change. Tony spread his arms to show his authority. "Do not run. Supplies will last. Do not run. Limit one per customer!" He shrieked like a little girl. I stood mortified. I'd never seen it this bad. But, it got worse.
Here came the men.
The heavy tread of Wal-Mart-bought cowboy boots followed the shrieking women. These men came armed. Sterile tongs and plastic collector's cases in hand, they advanced. Whereas the women grabbed and filled their arms, baskets, suitcases or whatever else they brought; the men chose carefully. They inspected each keepsake with Einsteinian intellect.
Already several ambulances had arrived on the scene, and old blue-haired ladies were being rolled out. Strokes from excitement, broken limbs, hernias from lifting, and short-circuited pacemakers were among the injuries. Still the mob of collectors fell on the stuffed animals like vultures to a ripe kill. The basest of all human nature was running rampant. It was ugly I tell you, absolutely grotesque.
Thirty seconds had passed. A blink of an eye. Already the line at my cash register reached the state line. I took the leap of faith and began ringing up the repulsive little stuffed creatures. Within minutes, the piles to be rung up reached the ceiling. The poor cash register was smoking and soon aflame. I ran out of receipt paper in one order. People were mortgaging houses to pay.
And Tony, poor Tony. He tried to hold back the waters of the Hoover Dam with his gangly 150-pound body. Between gluttonous heathens waiting to check out, I glanced over at him. He lay curled in the fetal position, rocking himself, and nursing the purse-inflicted wound in his forehead. He kept repeating feebly, "Limit one per customer." It was sad to see. The collectors' world had finally broken him. From now on, he would shudder at the mere mention of crafts, potpourri, or even flea markets. And the word "keepsake" would eternally make his blood run cold.
The rest is a little hard for me to talk about. The next three hours are blocked from my memory. My psychiatrist figures it's the intense trauma. But, next thing I remember, the store was empty and there was an eerie silence. The vultures had stripped the bones bare and left them to bake in the sun. Pages from ripped up collector's books were scattered knee-deep. The store looked like it had been looted and burned. Tony was still lying on the floor. I went over to him and helped him to sit up.
"I...but...it was..." He tried to describe his near-death experience.
"Don't talk now. It takes time. You'll be okay." I used the warmest voice I could muster. He was quite fragile. I helped him up, and he limped over to the counter. We looked like the sole survivors of a war-torn nation that had been battling for freedom our whole lives. We were soldiers, we had a duty, and we looked at the world with unforgiving eyes. I bandaged his head and brought him water. But, we did not share war stories. The memories were too fresh, the horrors too unspeakable.
I don't want pity or sympathy. I don't want a raise or a better job. I want you to learn, learn of the darkness of a collector's addiction. If you know someone who is a collector, talk to them. If you can't stop buying, cut up your credit cards. And if this story hits too close to home, get help as soon as possible.