Letters From Smitty (Best Buy)


I took a trip down to my local Best Buy store in order to get some advice on how to fix our Full-sized Malt Shop Jukebox that has been on the fritz ever since Smitty (my roommate) decided that the U.S. Government had hidden several microscopic nano-robots inside the records.  He attempted to extract the presumably evil robots rather viciously with an unstrung badminton racquet he found in a dumpster outside of our local Sports Authority retailer (at least he says that’s where he found it; I have my doubts though).  I spent much of the next day picking the glass out of Smitty’s epidermis with a pair of salad tongs.  The chore was made even more tedious with the lack of music playing in the background to lighten the mood.  I had to get the Jukebox fixed; how else could I listen to my extensive collection of Master P records?

Knowing that the local Best Buy was adept at handling problems of this nature, I loaded the Jukebox into my 1993 White Chevy Aero-Van, which people in the neighborhood charmingly call “The Pedophile Van.”  While I am an avid supporter of pedestrians walking rights, I’m having a hard time connecting the dots as to why our neighbors would assume that my van shows support for that cause.  If loving pedestrians makes me a pedophile, then so be it.

We arrived at the big-box retailer at 1:30 AM on the dot.  I assumed that they would be open since they constantly tout their “best in class service” however, I could see through the store window that the sales team must have been on their early morning coffee break, because no one was there to greet me.  On top of that, the door to the building was stuck.  Usually the change in temperature here in Sheridan, WY can cause some warping in the rails of doorframes but this was the most stubborn door I had ever encountered.  Unfortunately for the door, my mythically large temper got the best of me.  I blacked-out momentarily as a rage consumed me that could only be quelled by the shattering of glass.  When I came to, I was inside the store, my hand was bleeding profusely and loud sirens were wailing all around me.

I must have won the award for Most Tenacious Customer!  I had heard about programs such as these on the internets, but I was expecting more fanfare, balloons, confetti, maybe a cake.  However, I was disappointed as nary a sales associate or Public Relations representative greeted me.  Perhaps, they had mistimed their surprise leap and were still waiting for the cue.  As I looked around for signs of life, I realized that my hand was now a fountainous geyser, spewing my life blood in every which direction.  My mother had always warned me about bleeding in places of business.  She claimed that it was bad luck with little empirical evidence to back her assertion.

Once again, my mother was right in this instance.  I soon felt very tired and decided to take a nap in the Car Audio section of the store, which was difficult given that the Surprise Party Customer Sirens were still blaring.

A stout policeman with an unfashionable mustache awakened me rudely.  Someone nearby must have filed a noise complaint because the sirens were still going strong upon my return to consciousness; that was the only reason that the police would have been called.  With his hand on his gun holster, he demanded that I get down on the floor and put my hands on top of my head.  I insisted to know his badge number so I could report his rudeness and unprofessional behavior to an appropriate supervisor.  As I rose to my feet, he drew his weapon, which indicated to me that he was not in fact a real police officer, but just some rapscallion in a police officer’s uniform.  No real police officer would use excessive force on an innocent civilian.  It was a very good replica costume though, complete with presumably fake walkie-talkie, what looked to be a prop Mace canister, and surprisingly realistic looking handcuffs.  I again demanded his badge number but he was too busy acting like he was calling for reinforcements, speaking into his phony should radio.  I decided that this hoax had gone on long enough and made a move to sidestep this villain.

“Freeze!” he cried with his gun aimed more menacingly toward me.  I felt a lump begin to develop in my throat and closed my eyes from fear.  Then I heard a wooden thwack accompanied by the sound of a body hitting the floor followed by several more wooden thwacks and a slight squish followed by a string of vulgarities.  I looked up and it was Smitty standing triumphantly over my would-be assailant.  I forgot, he was parking the Pedo-Van over by the Fuddrucker’s across the street   He had saved me from this criminal who was impersonating a police officer.  And what do you know, but the unstrung racquet was in his hand.  Amazing isn’t it?  Oh how one piece of sports equipment could take us on such an interesting adventure!

As we strolled out of the door, I thought I heard a crackled voice respond to through the fake security guard’s fake walkie-talkie asking if he was the first responder.  But it was probably just my imagination.

The Juke Box is still broken but we have since hung it on our wall (which was a very arduous task).  Some of our friends think it is a very interesting piece of art.  Little do they know that it’s just a broken Jukebox.

– Alan Gibbons

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