I must be dreaming

I know all society holds the profession of porn store employee in the highest of esteem along with such professions as astronauts, neurosurgeons, and heads of state. Some nights, it takes hours to evade most of the slavering paparazzi and groupies. Rare indeed are the meals out when some nervous supplicant won't tremulously approach and ask for a photo or autograph. But it isn't always hot-and-cold running booze, babes, and drugs.

Just the other night I was beset by one of the cerebrally-gifted high-rollers that will on occasion grace this edifice with their presence. After a spirited bout of dickering over the price of lube samples, because a dollar is an exorbitant sum to demand, he shuffled his kingly way into the arcade area.

Approximately ten minutes later, he poked his head out of a booth and informed me in an aggrieved tone that the control panel was not working. A mere ten minutes to identify a problem, truly his mind is a supercomputer.

Gamely, I trot back to probably blink at the offending technology, scuff my toe, and say "Shucks, that's too bad, mister." Of course, the fact it also precludes the continuance of a verbal exchange being shouted back and forth through the store is purely coincidental.

Apparently, since I have shown the audacity to move to a more conversational proximity, he expects a bit more than a shrug from me. Enter in the sublime comfort of having some half-naked stranger looking over the shoulder whilst I'm poking briefly at the correct control panel. I assure you, the fact I never once allowed him to stray behind me out of sight was the slimmest of happenstance and in no way indicative that I did not behold him with the utmost trust and esteem. Inexplicably, it worked just fine. He stammers an apology as I direct a look of awe at his powers to telepathically fix the arcade booth.

After a thorough hand washing and dollop of hand sanitizer for good measure for myself, he comes out. Without further delay he reveals himself to be an exceptionally savvy customer by inquiring where the most inexpensive vibrators we have would be found.

I lead him forthwith to the hidden gems of the adult novelty world, the finest plastic and components nickels can buy assembled into a marvel of orgasmic engineering that might live on into the mystical, nigh-mythical future utopia of next week.

With boyish enthusiasm, he set to dickering with me over whether the sticker price included batteries, dealer fees, destination fees, and registration. He gave a good verbal tussle and in the end, managed to secure from me that I'd assume the various fees leaving him only to cover the cost of a battery should he desire one immediately. I'm sure his whining and remarks of disbelief that novelties are not all pre-supplied with batteries were all his idea of a puckish jest. It was with a heavy heart that I rang up his purchase already feeling the pangs that our discourses would be at an end.

Wonder of wonders, he retires once more to the arcade. Perhaps our interactions have not been concluded after all. Indeed, my heart skips a beat in rapture and delight when I hear his lilting voice issue from the arcade area. Misfortune has befallen him and his cheerfully-hued testament to craftsmanship has ceased to function not more than five minutes since I verified it was in working order at the counter. With tearful regret I had to reply to his entreaties to examine, perhaps to repair, the non-functional vibrator that the cold, unreasonable policy of the store prevented me from rendering the assistance I so whole-heartily would have otherwise provided. Truly, who would have expected such a precision device to fail with such unseemly alacrity? What a tragedy.

Some nights, it's all about living the rock star lifestyle.