"It's pronounced Doo-Mahs" October 20, 2010

In the early 90’s, I worked at a movie theater in Sausalito. This is a job that allows one to come across and be forced to interact with virtually every type shithead, smarmy butthole, and egotistical buttwipe that you can conjure in your imagination. I spent my time in the box office, behind glass, communicating with the world through a microphone and speaker. I learned many things – chiefly among them that it’s never wise to pick a fight with a guy behind glass who has what is essentially a bullhorn. You would be amazed at how many people learned this through practical application to their own eardrums.

One of the common hassles was refunds. People would request refunds for all sorts of reasons, some valid, and some not (fuck you, 3 months after it was released, you HAD to know what you were going to see in Pulp Fiction). What made it a hassle was that I had to have the customer provide the ticket stubs, and fill out a form with their name, address, and phone number. Ostensibly, this was to allow the company to call them and apologize for whatever reason, perhaps offering them a pass to come back. But really, it was a way to ensure that employees didn’t gather up ticket stubs and fake refunds to themselves – they’d randomly call people to make sure they were valid, especially if a certain theater seemed to have too many refunds.

Customers hated it. They would argue with me about it, and I simply had no choice – no ticket stubs and no completed form meant no refund. And being in my early 20’s and living on my own, where every cent counted, I was not about to risk what little income I had because some fussy shithead wanted to engage in a test of wills to impress his date. For the most part, it provoked the asshole in everyone – although most people, after I explained for the third time, began to understand that I had no choice, would calm down a bit and apologize after realizing they were being epic weapons-grade pricks.

But not this guy – not this one time.

On one occasion, we had a brown out. It’s actually pretty dangerous, because the current supplied to the bulbs needs to be at a certain voltage, otherwise there is actually an explosion danger. So even though customers could see the movie, albeit darkly, we had to stop all 3 screens and start refunding en masse. And apparently, this was the WORST THING EVER, and he was going to make sure that everyone was rallying around him to pressure me into some sort of concession. Because with that sort of power over the movie theater industry, I would be working in a ticket booth dealing with oafs and fucktards all day who regarded me as their captive audience.

So of course, out comes the form for a refund. And he refuses to sign. He turns and asks people behind him “Isn’t this just total crap?”, failing to realize that his shenanigans are holding up the refund line and the crowd is starting to hate him (at this point, my boss comes into the booth and sits down at the second window to try and help plow through the refunds). So eventually, with a great deal of poor grace, he starts filling out the form. I grab the form, and start counting out his refund, and I look down and see the name he’s filled out:

John Dumbass

Now, I could have pushed the issue and said “that’s not your real name”, but I’d had enough of this asshole, and decided that not only was I going to let him go, I was going to have the last word and humiliate him. So I count out his money, slide it through the window, and he snatches it up, turns around while saying audibly “fucking assholes”. And I lean forward, cranking up the volume on the speaker the entire way – you could hear the whistle and hum, and said as loud as I could…

“And you have a nice evening Mister Dumbass! We hope you come back!”

Two things happened:

He stops and freezes, ten feet away with his back to me, and his wife tugging his arm. I think he might have turned around and started shit, except everyone in the crowd around the window (easily 100 people at this point) starts laughing hysterically.

And remember, my boss is in the ticket booth the entire time. I turn, getting ready to get chewed out. He’s got his back to me as he was counting out money from the safe, except he’s stopped in mid count…. And he’s trembling. Holding in the laughter.

And that is why you never ever piss off someone with a megaphone. You’ll lose. Loudly.