Illustration by Bob AulSend anonymous thanks, confessions or accusations—changing or deleting the names of the guilty and innocent —to “Hey, You!” c/o OC Weekly, P.O. Box 10788, Costa Mesa, CA 92627-0247, or e-mail us at le*****@oc******.com">le*****@oc******.com.
Hey, G-Dog: you think you're really clever. You come into our store at the same time every day, 3:10 p.m. (we must be on your way home from your little white-boy school). No matter the weather, you're wearing a big, long jacket. A hundred degrees outside, and you're wearing a wool trenchcoat over your gangster rig: saggy baggies, high-tops and a Lakers jersey. You make your way to the rap section, check out the preoccupied guy at the front counter and then start jacking up the CDs. One, two, maybe three a day—very sly. You look around to make sure no one's watching the door, scoot around the anti-theft system and start running when you hit the corner. What you don't know is that we wait for you every day. At about 3:05 p.m., one of us mans the front counter and everybody else heads to the backroom where we have what I thought was the most obvious two-way mirror in the world. You've looked right at us, dumbass. Sometimes, you don't come, and then we worry that you're sick or had to stay after school. We see you come in, pocket the CDs and very slyly exit. Don't you wonder why some of the CD cases are sealed—but empty? That's us betting on your tastes. We'd be pissed-off if it weren't so funny. Hell, it's not our inventory you're lifting; it's the company's. And frankly, we hate rap. But we love the entertainment. Thanks for breaking up the long shift.
