|The Black Swarm
||[Sep. 20th, 2006|10:12 pm]
I Am Not Al Bundy
|||||Sin Bandera - Te Vi Venir||]|
My life is a "B" japanese horror film, on a miniature scale. It should be titled something like "They Came From Underneath The Filthy Trash Basins" or "Swarm: What You're Not Being Paid $7.25 An Hour To Keep Under Control (But Have To Anyway)." How about "コオロギは血がほしいと思う (As For Crickets, You Think They Want Blood)" (Engrish provided courtesy of BabelFish translation services)
Thousands of crickets. SEVERAL THOUSAND. Crawling all over the far side of the mall (and probably along most other stores, too. It's an outlet mall. Next to BIG FIELDS.). Hundreds made their way into our store. By the time I arrived, the assistant manager had already "entertained" himself by squishing the fuck out of a few dozen of the little buggers. Without asking, I knew he wanted me to sweep them up. Not a big deal, really, I like the managers of the store, and he was doing other things that needed to get done. Plus, we talk about fantasy football together, which is awesome.
On my way to the back, I notice dozens of crickets crawling over the boxes, INTO the boxes, INTO the spaces in the slat walls, INTO the backpacks and gym bags.
This was going to be a long day.
I opened the door to the back and another group of squashed (and hopping) bugs greeted me there. Next to them was the trusty broom, dustpan, and a new present. A brand new pushbroom with an aluminum handle. We had a wooden pushbroom, but I broke the shit out of that one trying to hockey-slapshot a group of crickets in frustration last week (oh yes, this has been going on for a while). I fought with the swarm of insects trying to hop through our front door and tried to get as many of the crickets in the store swept out or squashed and into the trash. I had avoided stepping on too many last week as it wasn't nearly as necessary, there were only a couple dozen crickets in the entire store. But these fuckers just kept coming. Screw you bugs. You go squish. It's a good thing I wore my Stacy Adams. I needed a flat-bottomed, old shoe for a good cricket-stomping.
Don't even ask about the crickets in the bathroom. I think they had been killed the night before and they were stinking it up. And the store manager had just cleaned it the day before. So much for "smelling fresh."
An unusual number of Canadians and British customers today. It's a nice break from the Mexican nationals who constantly visit the mall. (For readers who don't know me, I'm Hispanic. I can talk shit. Back off.) More on the Mexican nationals another day.
Why is it that when I hear an English accent, I almost immediately copy it? I can speak Spanish, French, and Japanese in my broken-non-native-speaker-American drawl but I slip straight into a fake accent around the Brits? Luckily I caught myself before they noticed and forced as much of a non-regional American dialect as I could muster. Curse the laws of foreign accents!