Cents-less need.

The other night, I was accosted by a young guy in dire need of my store’s merchandise. While such a turn of events is usually to be cultivated and desired, it does not take into account the hyperactively stupid.

I’ve noted his existence before, this lad, and that rarely bodes well for a patron’s character. He could very easily have persisted in my memory due to a certain aspect of concavity to his features. I’ve wondered each time he’s happened by if he’d been born with a cleft palette or like. Regardless, he is infused with the energy level of a terrier on crank and the cognitive function of nail clippings. You could probably amuse yourself for hours having him attack trees on the most whimsical of pretext, provided you could get him to recognize what a “tree” looks like.

Dare you think I am being overly scathing of the stripling; he has run through the litany of Stupid Questions more than once. I also had to explain the arcade to him in such minute detail I was contemplating the implementation of visual aids and operant conditioning. Goldfish have a nearly vertical learning curve compared to this guy.

But I digress. Allow me to continue sharing with you the latest delight he has deigned to grace me with. Pray recall he has made his entrance in a state of harried agitation.

The words erupt from his mouth. “I need a condom.”

Indicating the fixture facing behind him, “They’re right over there.”

He turns, expression dubious. “I just need one.”

Wordlessly I point to the bins of single condoms perhaps a foot distant to where he stands.

Laddie-buck grabs a three-pack anyway. So much for the imperative of only needing one I guess. He fishes a credit card from his pocket.

Is this a bleedin’ joke?! There’s a ten dollar minimum to run a card. No, the minimum is not that high, but his total was still under our cost to run the damned card. Call the rest an idiot tax.

His face falls. He fidgets. Dear gods, he starts to whine. “I need a condom. You can’t run it?”

Gee, I didn't catch that the first dozen times you stammered that. Sorry, minimum amount. I need a dildo the girth of a two-liter bottle to perforate your esophagus and leave me in sublime tranquility as you aspirate on blood and pulverized tissue. I loathe whining.

He dithers for a couple minutes more before scooting to the magazine rack. In short order he makes his selection. He bequeaths me a dim smile when he realizes his total has met the minimum to pay by card.

I check his ID and key in his card. His ass must have been painted with a karmic bulls-eye by the universe that night. Declined.

He starts doing a jerky writhing. Either he’s seriously anxious or he’s about to fill his diaper. “You sure?”

You bet. See, it even says it in nice crisp large text. Very. I hand him the slip. Do you have another form of payment?

He shakes his head. “Can you run it just for the condoms? I just need one.”

Wasn’t this where we started this charming little do-si-do? No.

He left empty handed radiating hurt like I’d drop-kicked his favorite granny into a thresher.

Ah it does my little, black heart good. These things keep you young you know. Or was that bathing in the blood of virgins? I keep getting those confused.

By some quirk of fate, some hours later that night I had another guy seeking to buy a condom with a credit card. The mind boggles.