I worked at a small, family-owned video store for four years. We served a panoply of customers-— well-heeled professionals, families, thespians, and your standard-issue reprobates and miscreants.
There were five televisions scattered throughout the store. We could watch whatever movies we wanted, provided the swearing/sexytime was minimal between 4-6 pm when school let out for the day. I would drink diet cokes and have entire theme days– all David Lynch; or Bette Davis; or Coming of Age Comedies made between 1982-1997. I was kept in constant supply of new screeners, and spent my shifts leisurely reading magazines and judging people based on their rental choices. As far as retail goes, this was as good as it got – almost.
We had a prolific ‘Adult’ section that was shielded from the ‘Family’ portion of the store by a flimsy wall. We would store the actual cassettes behind the desk and use a tag system. The intention was so that the female clerks didn’t have to go into the back room and see the display boxes and smell the strange, persistent odors.
What I found compelling was the fact that people were actually paying for porn. Granted, it was before ultra high-speed Internet, but still. Some would get a big bag of Tostitos and some dip and rent eleven videos, all due back the next day. That is commitment. Also compelling was the apparent lack of shame many of the customers seemed to possess. We had a considerable porno section, but there was a XXX store right around the corner.
You’d think the ‘family video store’ atmosphere would be bonercide, but evidently not. One burly man – with a penchant for hawaiian shirts and terrible Tevas – would shout across the length of the store; “Hey! HEY LADY! Do you have Young, Dumb and Full of Cum Vol. 4?” “No sir. Just volumes 1 through 3…” “Well that’s no good. Is Cum Shot Cocktails in? Or Whore of the Rings? Can you put it aside when it comes in?” Others were more sheepish about their endeavours. If I needed to extract payment for late charges I would merely bring it up when they would come in later with their wives. “What movie was THAT for, honey? I don’t remember taking anything out last week…”
When the cassettes were returned, they were rarely rewound. We had a little rewinder machine but we still had to physically open the cassette boxes and take out the tapes. Many came back slippery with lube. Others, stopped just after a crucial scene, were covered in mystery materials, like cereal. A regular coterie of old men would caress their filthy change into my hand with their soft, greasy fingers. Some would leave me tips. A certain unnamed city councilor would rent tranny porn, reserved under the guise of being a ‘computer book.’ I would flagrantly abuse the hand sanitizer, using it several hundred times a day in a fruitless attempt to cleanse my soul.
I was having a bad day (peppered with screaming kids, the theft of a Mary Kate & Ashley video and an alarming request for bestiality porn). I saw a nebbish man in a wool coat skulking around the back of the store. He approached the counter with a copy of Jumanji and a Snickers bar. I eyed him warily.
He whispered: “Do you have any child porn?”
“EXCUSE ME?” I intoned loudly. “No. We DON’T have any child porn.”
A mother standing in line behind the man gasped and pulled her kids in tight.
“You know WHY!?” I railed on, “Because it’s a criminal act to have sex with children. And film it. For PORNOGRAPHY.”
The man turned crimson, his eyes widening. “I said CHAPLIN, not child porn,” he hissed. “CITY OF LIGHTS. Ever hear of it? MY God…in all my life, I’ve never…” He stormed out in a huff. With good reason, I suppose. I had completely misheard him, and fundamentally branded him as a criminal in front of a room of people.
I learned some important life lessons at that job. Never jump to conclusions. And be grateful for the Internet.
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Tiffy Thompson is a writer and illustrator for the Toronto Standard. Follow her on Twitter at @tiffyjthompson.
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