Crackheads, Geriatric Flashers And Other Small Town Diversions (07/05/05)

I'm really not sure why I stay at my job. It would indicate either a tendency toward masochism or bravery that rivals on idiocy. You'd think that an overnight shift in a sleepy one horse town would be boring as hell, but the spectrum of freaks keeps getting wider. A few recent highlights of the strange, unusual and just plain too much information:

• Tommy the crackhead. Notice I did not say A crackhead, but THE crackhead. Town's so tiny we've only got one. He wanders up and down the highway at random and was banned from our establishment long ago for abusive behavior towards employees. He's a tenacious one though and still tries to gain entrance regardless of how many times I've tossed him out. Depending on mood he'll either curse me out, claim I'm one of the spies sent by his ex wife, or leave odd gifts at the front door (dirty baggies of pennies, packets of toothbrushes, toys stolen from dumpsters) in the hopes of currying favor. Upon being rejected last night like a white midget at an NBA tryout, he walked out and started trying to smash in my front window with the kind of junkie super powers usually only displayed by meth freaks. Resist urge to laugh as I call the police, because the sight of frail crackhead bouncing against 4 inch thick bulletproof glass like a human game of Pong is so utterly fucking ridiculous.
• As I'm filling out police report from the latest installment of the Freebase Diaries (something I've had to do so often that the local cops remember my birthday) he warns me of an older lady in a nearby senior citizen complex who gets her jollies by using her Med-Alert (I've fallen and I can't get up!) button to summon police and ambulance personnel then dropping her dressing gown with a smeared lipstick smile. He then asks me if I have any dull objects he can gouge his eyeballs out with, hoping the pain will burn the visual of sagging, liver spotted cleavage out of his brain.
• Head to back office to do some filing and computer work, I notice that a large leather file folder on top of the keyboard. I move it out of the way and a large ledger of legal paper falls out. As I'm trying to stuff it back into the folder I happen to glance down at it. It reads:

Hi! My name is Hillbilly Leprechaun! I am 36 years old. I'm looking for hot, young, well hung truckers traveling through ~our county~ and ~nearby county~ looking to ~a long paragraph that sounds like a bad porn plot~ Write me or call me at ~his real home address and phone number~

Scrawled in the margins was the personals column the ad would appear in. When I politely brought up the fact that this is not what he should be doing on the clock, and that he could've gotten all of us in serious Human Resources hot water if the regional manager (who was visiting that day) had found it instead of me, his reply was:

"Oh I know. I couldn't even get to read my magazine (pulls porn out of backpack) , since he was here all day."

Cue Ella banging her head against desk like an autistic child. I do not have enough authority to fire him, and the person who does refuses to do so.