Okay, get this. I'm a skinny guy, and a cart wrangler for a warehouse style store.
Now picture what I have to deal with: our cart return bays are huge compared to most others. They actually do take up an entire parking space worth of area. So of course when customers actually return carts to the bay, they don't necessarily line them up in neat rows. If I want to gather up carts, I have to go into the bay and straighten out the hodge podge of carts going every which way so that I can remove a line of carts.
I'm not complaining, mind, since most of the customers DO actually put the carts into the return bay. But it does give you a picture for what's upcoming.
It's a busy day. We have four cart wranglers doing full time duty running back and forth with lines of carts to keep up with the stream of holiday shoppers, who snap up the carts almost faster than we can return them.
Of course, the parking lot is full so there are no close spots. Aaand you're getting the picture.
I'm in a cart return bay, straightening carts when I hear the rumbling of a large truck motor close behind me... TOO close.
I spin around and Doucheboy is trying to pull into the cart bay with his jumbo-diesel-penis-euphemism-truck.
"Hey!" I yell, "This isn't a parking space!"
No response; Doucheboy is still trying to maneuver his truck into the bay, and the rumble of his motor practically drowns me out.
I am NOT being paid to get run over by this asshole! I can either climb the hood of the oncoming truck, climb over rows of tightly nested shopping carts that block me from ducking under the side bars, or climb out the back, which has a twelve foot high dirt embankment planted with large oleander bushes.
I choose the oleander bushes, shouting and swearing and gesturing rudely at the driver. He finally realizes that there are obstacles to getting in, when his front bumper has located the carts and they have no intention of giving in easily.
He stops, rolls down his window and yells at me to, "Get those fucking carts out of my way!"
I yell back that this isn't a parking space and he needs to park somewhere else.
He tells me again to move the carts (...even if I wanted to... HOW?! he was blocking the only entrance to the cart bay!)
I tell him he can't park here.
"I'll park where I want!"
He backs up six inches, shifts it into drive and floors it, banging into the carts again while I shriek like a howler monkey and climb farther into the oleanders while the carts jerk and jostle beneath me.
I make a rude sexual gesture involving my fist and other such inappropriate gestures while hanging like a demented monkey from the oleander bushes.
He's yelling at me, I'm gesturing back, and (thank god) one of the other cart wranglers apparently saw the situation and radioed for aid.
I don't know what was said to trigger urgency in the response, but two police cars come screaming into the parking lot just a few minutes later. They get a perfect view of the Doucheboy backing up three feet and then slamming forward with tires squealing as he tries to force his car in among the carts. Some of the carts are actually humping up into the air under the pressure.
They can clearly see me, trapped halfway up the embankment and in serious danger. (I owe my life to those carts since they were all nested snugly and resistant to his attempts. I don't know how to repay my debt.)
It takes four cops with guns drawn and aimed at the cabin to wake Doucheboy up, whereupon me meekly opens his door and is dragged out and slammed to the asphalt.
He's sniveling and crying about "Ow!" and "Don't hurt me!" and "I didn't do anything!"
One of the officers comes to help me out of the oleanders and helps to steady me as I skid awkwardly down the embankment. (I am not in great shape and can only attribute a Superman's jolt of adrenaline to my shooting halfway up a very steep dirt cliff.)
Doucheboy just can't understand why he's in trouble, and why he's being arrested for trying to park, and he spends a lot of money here and we can't treat him like this. Weh, weh, weh. He had this high pitched whiny shriek of a voice that cut through my eardrums.
Since we won't shut the fuck up about how it's not his fault and they can't do this and why is he being treated like this, and he won't stop whining long enough for a cop to ask what his friggin NAME is, he's shut into the back of the patrol car while another officer tries to get the story out of me. I can actually hear him thumping on the reinforced glass and howling about "You can't do this! Do you know who I am?! Do you know who my father is?! You'll never get a job again! You'll be homeless under a bridge, you hear me? A BRIDGE!"
By now we've got managers out there with us, along with another cart wrangler who explains his side of the story, collaborating mine. I'm drawn off to try to calm down.
The cops promised to throw the book at him. The cop's dash cams captured the scene in full; the ramming, me coming down from the bushes with the aid of an officer, and all of his screaming.
We have to replace several dozen carts, which were warped by the impact of his truck, and plan to add that to the tab.
The court date isn't for a while, but I kind of look forward to seeing the footage and him trying to tell the judge how he wasn't endangering my life.