The office I work out of doesn’t actually have a receptionist or actual staff that works there all day long. Additionally, all of us who do work there are out working at a hospital or surgery center (or home, my home is really my office) most of the day. Point is, when I’m there, I’m usually all by my lonesome. The office is part of a big center, but it ain’t ezactly in the swankiest part of town (VegasRobb and frequenters to Vegas: it’s up the street from UMC). My boss was working there one night, around 11-ish, when a dude in his 60’s came up and rattled the (fortunately) locked door. He was clad solely in his briefs, and I don’t mean he was a lawyer. Sooo, it’s a good habit to leave the door unlocked only when you are actually opening it and moving through the doorway, if you catch my drift.
BUT! I left it unlocked today, because I was farting around in the back and was expecting the Gas guy to drop off a new liquid nitrogen tank (we store heart valves and veins in liquid nitrogen, a brisk -190 C). It was raining out, and I didn’t want to hold him up at the door with that big fucking tank on his handtruck, getting wet and cursing my dark soul and vowing to make me wait all day for him next time. The door buzzes when it opens, anyway.
After dicking about in the back, I sat my ass down at the front desk and cried softly to myself as I read posts from JonR. and Brian Koontz intimating at what a horrible, horrible person I am for, like, posting stuff on the internet.
Suddenly this dude shot in the front door and came right up to my desk. The reception desk is one of those typical of doctor’s offices, tall in front so it’s abdomen-level to a standing visitor, and sunken so it’s chair-level to the receptionist. I’m sitting there chilling in front of the snazzy front office PC, waiting for the goddamned Gas guy, and now there’s this dude.
Rather, a friendly-faced fellow in a shirt and tie (and windbreaker to shake off the drizzle). Flashing a practiced grin, he bombarded me with a rapid-fire slew of pure huckster solicitation. Punctuating his sales pitch for the various odds and ends he was plying was him pulling those same things out of his bag, which was slumped against the front of the desk (I assume - I never saw the dude enter, nor his bag). A calculator! A CD case! Random other barely-related office/convenience items! I lost track as he handily piled these things on top of the desk.
Why did I lose track? No, it wasn’t for the sheer volume of them (there were only about four, including the calculator and the CD case). It’s because…well…because he was [size=2]black[/size]. There, I said it.
I reassessed my sitch, as Faith from Buffy would obnoxiously say. Alone, off-balanced, (black) guy reaching into his bag incessently, cheesing and pitching the whole while. Dressed nice, though. Who robs joints like these in mid-day? In the, you know, crappiest business sector in town…
Then he said, this guy looked at me, eerily calmed himself, and said:
“Wait, I have something really special to show you.”
He reached into his bag and pulled out a box, about one foot square. What could you put in a box like that? He laid the box on the desk. He opened the box. He said:
“Check this out.”
It’s a gun. A fucking handgun. I don’t know what kind, who knows what kind these days. He hefted it and pointed it at me. His expression is flat. I don’t know what’s coming next.
Oh, wait, not really. It’s a gift box with a wristwatch, pen and money clip. He’s going on and on about how it’s special and he never offers it for this price but all I can do is scream in my own head
THANK GOD THAT’S NOT A FUCKIN GUN.
Sad, no? I know, it’s your classic “Crossing the street” morality/sociopsychology experiment, but boy did I ever fail it. I did, however, buy later that day a “No Solicitors” sign and tack it up in full view. And kept the door locked.