Open Sundays, sorry if that’s a problem

Open on Sundays, sorry if that’s a problem

    I am, by most counts, a great transit commuter.  I have TriMet on my RSS, so I catch announcements.  I pay attention to reader boards in case of sudden changes.  I’ve built a 20-30 minute cushion into my commute in case of total WTFs.  So, when I saw that the west side MAX line was being worked on I was not concerned about probable 15-20 minute delays.  I had my cushion.
    However, it is TriMet.  So, instead of arriving at 8:00a to play hardcore catch-up (I normally get in at 9:00a on Sundays) I got there a little before 8:30a.  I’d noticed, as my bus brought me over the Ross Island Bridge, that there was a guy asleep directly in front of Sock Dreams HQ.  Like, directly in front of the doors.  I was totally “DAMMIT,” ’cause I was going to have to wake him to get inside.
    As I walked up to the building I checked the time, hoping TriMet had made me late enough that the other employee due in at nine would be arriving soon.  No luck.
    See, I’d recognised the guy and his shopping cart.  He’d hung around SDHQ before and sometimes his cart would stand lonely for a week until he was able to come back to get it.  And the guy was a dick.  Sometimes he was cool, but most of the time he was a little bitch about moving to the side of the building so our customers (when the store was at HQ) could use the sidewalk.  He’d leave messes of rags and he’d been known to snarl random shit at one of our employees.  But whatever, I would be polite, so he wouldn’t be a jerk-ass.
    I took a breath, because I hate confrontation of any form, walked up and asked if he could please move out of the way enough that I could open the door to get in.  I was polite, because he was sleeping and I am secretly a nice person.  So I waited while he gathered his blankets and things and shoved them with increasing agitation into his cart.  I had not asked him to leave, just to give me enough room to get to the door, but whatever.
    Thanking him, I let myself in, made sure the door was shut and went to turn off the alarm (the door has to be shut for the alarm to turn off).  I could hear him bitching about how fucking stupid it is that we’re open on Sundays and “who do you think you are!”
    And I am all sighs about this as I go to my cubicle to put away my things.  It is sort of the 21st century and shit does not turn to the Monday-Friday wheel as tightly any more.  I listened as he wheeled his cart along the front of the building, working himself up into a lather.  The entire curved front corner of the building is glass, so if he’d been enunciating I would have heard his building tirade clearly.  A little worried, because crazy and anger are unpredictable, I turn on my computer, hear a ‘thunk’ sound and think “You stupid fucker don’t hit the windows.”  Then, as his bitching escalates he does hit the windows, loudly and clearly.
    I could see the rest of the glass rattle in sympathy at the impact.  Knowing full well what comes next, my hand drifts to the phone on my desk.  And there, with a cry of “Fucking WHOORES!” the guy slams into the window again, kind of like a rearing bear.  Very logically, the window shatters.  Also logically, I pick the phone up and call 911.  As it rings I hear the sound of tinkling glass, muttering and shopping cart wheels scurrying away.
    The 911 lady was awesomely competent. I called my office manager who is equally awesome and competent.  I had to reassure her that I was find and thank GOD I had half a cinnamon roll left from the day before.  Then, with little to do about the window besides wait for the police officer to show up, I warmed up some coffee and answered some sock questions.
    Now, I’m not saying I was all super chill, because there is nothing you can do about adrenaline, but I did need to catch up on work.  Work is also nice and distracting, I’ve found as of late.
    Police cars circled the building a couple of times, looking for the dumbass.  I spoke on the phone with the adorable Officer Parks, confirming my (rockingly detailed, in my opinion) description of said dumbass.  It turned out they’d probably found him.  I explained that I had to wait for the other employee to show up before I could leave, thanked him and went back—albeit distractedly—to work.
    Officer Parks came by, took my statement and asked me about socks.  Which, y’know, glad to oblige.  When my co-worker showed up I explained things, called my office manager again to let her know all was cool and that I’d be stepping out to ID the shitheel.
    Then I got to ride in a police car (in front)!  Dude, those things are crammed to the gills with gadgets.  We drove a whole three blocks away from SDHQ, pulling up less than half a block from where another black-and-white was parked.  Before I even saw the guy in question I recognised his cart.  The other officer had the guy stand up and move forward to where we could see him from the car.  I positivly ID’d him, sort of in awe that he thought a couple of streets down was far enough away to hide.
    Back at SDHQ Officer Parks gave me the info needed for us to press charges and I went back to work.  Because the sock mines call and we’ve got orders to get out.  Even if that makes us “fucking whoores”