Perhaps he has a cell phone with a high price firm on speed-dial in his cart.

As time progresses, I am discovering that the homeless are the scourge of the urban adult store. Or perhaps, it would just be my particular store. They are the vermin insinuating themselves into nooks and crannies. They devour my attention like shopping cart equipped locusts.

On one hand, I can understand why they would desire to enter the store. It puts a roof overhead and insulates them for a bit in a temperature controlled environment. The arcade provides them with a modicum of privacy. I doubt highly that the merchandise occupies a high priority on their list.

On the other hand, a business is not a shelter. I am constrained by circumstance to maximize the percentage of people who spend money over the percentage who only pass through. Right from square one, there is a contention between the needs of the store and the homeless, who are striving to get the most time in the store for the smallest cost. Rarely does this play out in less than acrimonious directions. They've got nothing to lose and much to potentially gain by resisting; civil rights we have to be aware of and little to no penalties if the police do arrive.

It's exceedingly hard to be understanding and cordial to a segment of society that tends to be aggressively defensive and in many cases, irrational. Thanks to lack of funds to hold the mentally ill. With some extra special curb-cowboys, it takes iron self-discipline not to erupt into berserk fury.

For example, I had a lovely encounter with one such dumpster-delver. At first I was not cognizant of who he was. He was an older gentleman with a substantial pile of coins. Of course, it was way more than I was willing to flood my till with, however I did what I could. He stared at me for a bit after I took all the coin I was willing to exchange for bills, waiting for me to accept it all. So I apologized and explained store policy to him once again. He had an odor of booze about him and dropped a couple coins while transferring the remaining change from the counter to his pants in that slow, careful manner of someone who's a bit buzzed. He didn't seem horribly impaired however so I didn't ask him to leave.

He headed off for the arcade and I Lysoled the counter. With that much coming out of his pockets, better safe than sorry. After a suitable period he came back to the counter and started attempting to lay out his change. Once again, I explained that I couldn't accept all the coin he had and that I'd already taken as much of it as I could that day. As he glared at me and sullenly started to stuff his nickels and dimes away again, it occurred to me that I'd seen this bozo before. He muttered and complained at me so I bid him a good night. I hit the counter with another dose of disinfectant. When he hit the door I did a quick scan of our Wall of Shame. Son of a bitch, he'd gotten a shave and a hair-cut but he was right there on the wall.

I trotted out to find the expected purloined shopping cart laden with assorted possessions in addition to the man in question. I reminded him he was actually trespassing since he'd been photographed over a year ago, informed he was excluded from the premises at least twice previously, and subsequently escorted off by the police at least once prior.

All of which had all the effect of speaking Swahili at a Highland Games. He kept huffing that he spent his money so what was my problem. Also persisted in using the store dumpster as an anvil to crack a can of green beans like some mangy sea otter. There was a nice passive-aggressive plea for indulgence so he could eat his dinner. At this juncture I couldn't have cared less if he ever ate again but he certainly wasn't welcome to do it anywhere on store property and told him so.

He left but not without more glaring and a few feints toward chucking the can at my head.

Lo and behold, the curmudgeon returned.

I reiterated that he was trespassing and needed to leave. He launched into a diatribe about how he was being persecuted and victim of my prejudice. It took picking up the phone and starting to dial the police before he backed out the door again.

Wouldn't you know it, when I walked to the door to check his progress out of the lot; he was haranguing some guy in his car. What followed was a nasty verbal banishing on par with a prison exercise yard knife fight.

Apparently, I shall be hearing from his lawyer.