I Want This Notarized

By On April 6, 2009 · 2 Comments
I was in the middle of helping a customer with a payment when my nose twitched.  It wasn’t the cute Bewitched twitch, nor was it a sneeze sort of twitch.  This twitch is the one I dread more than any other—the “there is a very smelly person in the office & now I’m going to have to smile at him without breathing” twitch.
Sure enough as I glanced up & surreptitiously past the current customer I could see the source of the stench.  Our most paranoid customer (seriously this dude makes anybody who thinks they are members of the Tinfoil Hat Society look like sane, upstanding members of the world) was standing nervously by the door. Picture a man somewhere between 50 & 175, about 6 feet tall dressed like a homeless lumberjack.
His hair is in long, grey dreadlocks that haven’t been washed since before I was born…he hasn’t bathed in that long either I suspect.  Winter or summer he wears a minimum of 3 shirts each caked in decades of grime, sweat and stench.  In fact sometimes it sounds like he’s also got paper of some kind stashed between the layers of filth.  My guess is it is probably cash since I’ve heard him rant about how the banks are trying to steal his money (News flash guy—the banks are trying to steal money from all of us). My customer leaves (much to my dismay) and Mr. Stenchy Stencherson we’ll call him strode to the counter.  He waved a sheaf of papers in my face, wafting his tantalizing? (okay gag-reflex inducing) natural odor into my face.  Seriously this is toxic stuff…bottle it & drop it on our enemies.  It will knock them out & we won’t even have to use chemical agents. Anyway, being the consummate professional I am (no matter how much I might dislike this particular office & job right now I do my best to smile & greet the customers cheerfully.  I smile when I answer the phone too.) I smiled very pleasantly at Mr. Stency Stencherson, “What can I help you with today”?  The papers were pushed at me & I struggled a bit to control them before I was able to tell what they were.  As I looked at the papers his unused voice scratched my ears, “I want this notarized too.” I glanced up to see copies of his payment spread out on the counter.  “I’m sorry, what do you need”? I smile again holding my breath as best I can.  Louder & more quarrelsome he jabs the papers, “I want these notarized, I wanna make sure it shows I paid my bill”.  I call my boss over who brings the officious stamp. After a few minutes of trying to understand why the man is insisting on having copies of his money order notarized, my boss manages to explain that unless there is a signature involved a notarization is unnecesssary.  “Well I don’t want that cheap receipt she’s writing out. It’ll fade & then I won’t have proof I paid anything if I have to sue them”, Mr. Stency Stencherson manages to croak out. “Oh, well I can stamp the copies with the date & write on them if you’d like”, hoping my breathless sounding voice isn’t readily apparent (and if it is he doesn’t get the idea I’m trying to flirt). Finally, I manage to write out 3 receipts for the payment (all while trying to breathe through my ears), hand him the papers back & smile.  I continue to smile after his grunge encrusted hand brushes mine when he takes them from me & walks out the door.  I sit frozen in place at my desk for a good 5 minutes, smile plastered on my face like a Mardi Gras mask in case he comes back. Luckily for me it was lunch time so after spraying a crop duster sized amount of air freshener I left to go home where I could scrub myself with lye & bleach. Don’t you envy me?  I know you want my job…come visit & I’ll train you in.
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  • http://www.simplysneaky.blogspot.com S

    I have thought long and hard about my response to this post.
    When I read something like this it hurts.
    My children’s father is schizo-affective and while not homeless nor dirty he does display the paranoia and confusion that you have talked about in this post.
    It makes me sad that in today’s world that mental illness still carries such stigma and is such a butt of so many jokes.
    Mental illness is nothing more than a chemical imbalance in the brain. While many mentally ill people do accept and receive treatment, there are many, many more who because of the symptoms of the disease cannot accept treatment. Only 30% of the people with paranoid schizophrenia have insight. Meaning that they know they are sick and need medication to become well. The other 70% do not have insight and think they are just fine and it’s everyone else who has the problem.
    I pray every.single.day that my children do not inherit their father’s disease. It is a real possibility, though.
    Education and compassion are the only things that are going to turn our society around to understanding that mental illness is just that.. an illness. Cruelty and jokes are so defeating.

    Even though smelly, paranoid and “weird” …he has a core value just like yours and mine. He is someone’s son, father, brother.

    • Nil17

      S– Thank you for your comment & your honesty. I did not mean for this post to come across as making fun of anybody with mental illness. I am saddened that it seemed to be that way to you. I did not take into consideration that viewpoint when I posted this entry. Without disclosing personal information I will say that I have experience with mental illness in my extended family. I will pray too that your children do not inherit their father’s disease.

      My intent in writing this was to highlight some of the events in my day at the office. This event was one in a myriad of strange, smelly “weird” ones that happen every day. I do realize that this man has core value & did not intend to diminish that. While I understand (truly I do) your feelings; this post was about a person who rather than being mentally ill has decided to become so anti-social he appears to be mentally ill. He flouts the rules at every opportunity and makes dealing with him in any situation a great challenge. This was what I was trying to highlight. I apologize for causing you any hurt.

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