It was another long workday in the middle of another 60-hour week. I was working as the director of a Hollywood Video in Cottage Grove, MN. Director was actually my title, but in reality, I was merely a store manager, basking in the wealth and glory of working in retail. While merely a transitional job while I looked for work in the computer industry, I had to be thankful for the income at the time.
As dead-ended as the job was, there always seemed to be plenty of happenings that kept things interesting. For example, my first day included an assault. One customer had apparently attacked another over something petty. Appropriately enough, it happened in the Drama aisle. Niiiiice.
And there was the time when I counted the money in the safe and found an IOU from my assistant manager (hired prior to my tenure). She indicated she used it to buy herself some fast food. This is the same person I asked to organize the Science Fiction section, only to find she alphabetized it starting on the bottom right shelf, working her way to the left and upward (obviously the total reverse of the rest of the store and the Milky Way). And for the record — the hair color was brunette.
We had recently had a problem in the candy storage room. Something was gnawing into select packages of candy and generally having a Willy Wonka experience with my inventory. The absence of IOU’s cleared the assistant manager, which pretty much narrowed the profile to a mouse.
I sent an employee across the street to the general store for some mousetraps and cheese. We didn’t get anything, not even a nibble. Day after day of fresh cheese and we still had nothing. The rodent clearly had priorities. Hot Tamales and my cheese were out. Milk Duds and Reeces Pieces were in.
The district manager casually suggested I call an exterminator. I remember laughing, wondering what kind of wussy needs mouse 911. It wasn’t a python. I tried for a few more days. At some point I think it sank in that there soon wouldn’t be any candy left for the patrons.
I had the phone in my hand, about ready to call the Orkin Corporation. I just had to accept my defeat and dial the number. I set up an appointment for the next day and tried to put the whole thing out of my mind.
The next day I was summoned from my office to meet the great “exterminator”. I could see as I approached him that he was serious about his job. His clothing was perfectly pressed. Even his baseball style Orkin hat was unblemished.
On the downside he was clearly a nerd. The brim on that Orkin hat was as flat as the moment it came out of the box on his first day of training. His posture and stance were that of a 4-foot tall bouncer trying to give me an 8-foot illusion of himself. He stood there with what appeared to be a briefcase. I could only imagine what was in there — night vision glasses, a ten-piece rodent-call set, and no doubt, a special mouse trap with his name engraved on it, with markings identifying how many “kills” he had. He shook my hand and we proceeded to the candy room.
After that point, everything had a CSI feel to it (Crime Scene Investigation). He had the little investigator note pad and pen for his case notes. What on Earth could he have been writing? It was a stinking mouse! It was dining over there, and pooping over there. Case closed.
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| After several Sherlock Holmes style questions, he then asked me if anyone had had a visual of the creature. I indicated that one of my employees had seen it and said it was small and sort of brown. He was giving me the “uh huh, uh hmmm” as he jotted his notes. He asked where it was seen and I gestured toward the adjoining office, indicating it was running along the base of the back wall.
At that point his lips became tense, he gritted his teeth and lowered his note pad. He then did the big inhale, followed by the big exhale (cheeks inflated like a blowfish) just before saying, “Wall Hugger”.
I replied, “Excuse me?” He repeated it and I still couldn’t believe he had said it. This was apparently the breakthrough he was looking for. I needed every ounce of my will to keep from laughing. You would think we were talking about Darth Vader, and just realized that his true source of power was Milk Duds. He then headed for his van. I assumed he needed his battle dress prior to summoning the Force. I, personally, was wondering when I would awaken from all of this.
He came back in, walked to various positions in the store, then outside again. In and out and all over he went. I just stayed away, you know, letting the exterminator do his exterminating.
A short time later we convened in my office. He hands me a full site assessment in triplicate, including maps (like treasure maps with the red X marking the spot) identifying the various locations of the traps. He identified the point of entry and “fortified” it against future attempts. He also located a mound of dirt across the alley where an entire mouse colony had taken up residence.
He then boldly informed me that if the subject were still in the premises, we would “have him” that night. He gave me his card and indicated he would follow up with me in one week. The comprehensive package he presented was so convincing and thorough; I could not help but think I had severely underestimated the man. What a pro he actually turned out to be.
We did “get him” that night. I entered the candy room and found the little bugger’s body completely attached to a glue trap. Little Darth was no match for the Orkin man. It was over.
Regarding Exterminators: Somebody needs to send 4 or 5 of these guys after Osama Bin Laden. Within a week or so we would probably have video clips of Osama stuck to a glue trap on the side of a special operations camel.
By the way, I use glue traps for everything now, and so can you. Are your kid’s getting in the cookie jar without permission? Glue traps. Neighbor borrowing your welder excessively? Glue traps. Still trying to find that special someone to spend the rest of your life with? You guessed it — glue traps.
That’s my report from the “Big City”.
Brian in the Big City
Employee #0090698
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