Page 67 of Meet Stan

“I’m sorry sir, I’m almost done,” she said, still trying to be nice. “Just let me finish here—”

“Sixteen,” I snapped. “A dollar forty-five. Twelve cents.”

She paused in her count, eyes narrowing. The skin on her face tightened, turned subtly red as she closed her fist around the change.

“Okay, I guess maybe I can count this change later.”

“You’re goddamn right you can,” I snapped. “I’m a customer, and I demand satisfaction.”

My plan was to get her all riled up, offering me coupons and such to calm me down, until I told her ‘the only thing that will satisfy me is your hand in marriage.’ Then I would get down on my knee and she would be all happy, and maybe cry, I don’t know.

“Oh, you demand satisfaction, do you?” She looked down at the ticket on the counter. “I take it this is what’s causing you so much stress?”

“You’re damn right it is. I brought you a blue oxford shirt. The orders were to remove a mustard stain on the breast pocket, repair a seam on the left sleeve, and let out the collar by three inches.”

She unfurled the crumpled ticket and her brow furrowed in confusion.

“What in the heck? Who was working that day? I’ve never seen a ticket filled out like this.”

“I don’t know, it was one of them girls or something,” I snapped. “I can’t remember exactly. What I can remember is that you didn’t do any of the work on my shirt I requested and then you hit my credit card twice for the charges.”

“Okay, sir, I’m trying to sort this out for you—”

“Well, sort faster, goddamnit,” I snapped, slapping my hand down on the table.

She paused, and her nostrils flared. Her skin darkened just a bit, and when she spoke it was in a clipped tone.

“Sir, I’m doing my very best to help you here. Please don’t slam your hand on the counter again, as it’s very distracting.”

“Oh, you mean like this?” I slapped my hand on the counter again, looking her right in the eye. “Is that what you don’t want me to do? This?”

I slapped it again. She crumpled up the ticket in her hand.

“Yes,” she hissed through clenched teeth. “Now wait just a minute, I’m going to run this receipt through the computer and see what comes back.”

“Hurry up,” I snapped.

She stepped over to her terminal. She typed about three numbers and then I slapped the counter again.

Her gaze shot at me, and a withering one it was. I was fully caught up in my character, though, and missed the warning signs.

“There was a fly.”

“Sir, if you do that one more time—”

I slapped the counter. Then I did it again, and suddenly I was slapping out a wicked rendition of a John Bonham drum solo. I got so caught up in what I was doing, I missed that she had come out from behind the counter.

“Get out of here,” she snapped, striking me with a rolled-up newspaper. Like I was a dog.

“Hey,” I sputtered, running away from her. “Cut that out.”

“Get out, get out, get OUT.” She chased me into the street. I tripped over my prop cane, or maybe it was the whole socks with sandals thing. Anyway, I went down in a heap, but she was so livid she just kept hitting me in the face with the newspaper.

“Hey,” I said “Hey, stop. Ivy!”

She paused in her attack, arm drawn back for another blow.

“It’s me, Ivy,” I said, pulling off the wig and glasses. The prosthetics came off a bit more stubborn, but I got them mostly cleared away in seconds.

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