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Brought to you by crossfire
Today has been strange. Lived up to its Friday the 13th duties, that's for certain. I had some really horrible news this morning....
There was this great guy, named Dewayne, who owned a barber shop a few doors down from Blockbusters, at the other end of our shopping center. Nicest guy you could ever hope to meet. He would come into the store all the time. I'd always take good care of him because he was one of the few that make the job actually worthwhile, the ones who love you for what you do and who never have an unkind word to say. Those customers are extremely rare, and I treasure each one as much as I despise all of the rude, bitching, ignorant ones.
When I started working there Dewayne was one of the first of those customers. He'd owned the barber shop for many years, far longer than the six years our store's been open, and he once told Paul that out of all the cashiers that have worked there, I was the most efficient and friendly. I can't say how great that made me feel. One day in October I mentioned to him that I wanted to go to a Haunted House, but didn't have any money. He gave me a ten and told me to have fun. Another day we spent admiring each others tattoos. He had a beautiful one on his calf, a design he created himself; a music note with flames around it, I believe. A week wouldn't go by when he didn't come in, wearing shorts and short-sleeves (even in the dead of winter), smiling and greeting us warmly, for all the world seeming happy and perfectly healthy.
This morning Paul was talking to a couple of people outside, before we opened. He then came in to inform me that Dewayne probably had less than an hour to live. Apparently he was an alcoholic, at some point in his life. It destroyed his liver and he'd been in a coma for days. This morning they'd taken him off life support.
Why does it always happen to the people who don't deserve it?
We'll miss you, Dewayne.