My second-best Furby story (and I'm sad my phone's auto-correct knows "Furby" and not "around" or other, common words) involves being at work one day when my manager, who had just arrived for her shift, pointed out a teenage couple to me.
"See those jerks?" she said.
"Yeah," I said, kind of stunned, as she was highly religious and that was major swearing for her.
She went on to say "I passed them as I was walking in. The guy said 'I'm going to go in and ask them if they have Furbies, and rage when they tell me they don't.'"
Having not noticed my manager passing by, despite being in her uniform, he had gone up to the first worker he saw after he and his girlfriend stopped laughing over his plan . . . Which had turned out to be my manager. The fellow came up to the counter, slammed his fist down, and demanded a Furby.
"I told him I heard what he'd said to his girlfriend." My manager said, "And he tucked tail and went out with his lady.
My best Furby story involved someone trying to assault a child for one.
I was covering at a different store, one that was a higher-grosser than my store, so the District Sales Manager had been insuring it got Furbies when they were available to keep their numbers high. So it was a few days before Christmas that we got in several cartons of Furbies special delivery. As per procedure we had a limit of one per customer, and you couldn't reserve a Furby.
We sell through most of them, but somehow we still have some an hour before we close. I get a phone call from a frantic young woman who is questing for a Furby. Being young, honest, and dumb I tell the woman we have them, but we can't hold them for you. The years have hazed my memory on the exact words of the conversation, but it went like this.
Me: I can't hold a Furby for you.
Psycho: You will have a Furby waiting for me
Me: I'm afraid I can't do that. It's company policy.
Psycho: When I arrive you will have a Furby waiting for me.
Eventually she tells me she'll be "right there," and hangs up. A half-hour passes, and we're down to one Furby. Like something out of a bad movie, this little girl steps into the store, with eyes normally only found on children in velvet paintings and talking with a lisp, asking me if we have Furbies as she shakes her fist filled with crumpled bills. I sell her the last Furby and hand it over to her in its bag when Psycho arrives, boyfriend in tow.
Psycho is about 5'5 with jet black hair, unblinking eyes, and a predatory expression that says "Sociopath." Her boyfriend towers over my 6'2" form, and he's built in a way that would put professional football players to shame. His face is a blank mask, which all these years later personal experience has taught me is a side-effect of a long-term relationship with crazy. The little girl has barely walked away from the register when Psycho steps up.
"I'm here for my Furby" she says in a tone that shows she's used to getting her own way.
I point to the departing girl. "I'm sorry, " I said. "She just bought the last one."
The words had barely left my mouth and she pivoted in place and headed straight for the girl. The boyfriend stepped forward and grabbed her by the shoulders, holding her in place. She kept trying to pull away from him, and he just kept holding on to her. What added to the creepiness of the situation was that neither one of the said a word, like him having to physically restrain her from attacking children was such a regular part of their relationship that it needed no words.
The store had all-glass frontage, and we all watched the girl until she disappeared from our field of view. It was about another minute before Psycho just stopped struggling, like a switch had been flipped. Her boyfriend took his hands off of her, and she slowly walked out of the store, ramrod-straight.
He looked at me over his shoulder, a sad look that I now know to mean, "I'm sorry you had to see a brief snippet of the madness I endure every day of my relationship."