The crazy gal from yesterday is back, looking worse for the wear. Her backpack is missing, but somewhere she picked up a dirty red wool blanket, which she's wearing like a shawl.
I let her wander around babbling for a while, but her volume control started to slip. I found her sitting in the cooking section messing around with a set of 'love cards' we had on display in the metaphysics section.
My approach to these situations is dictated by a long ago stint hosting at Angelo's, a busy Italian joint across the street that is now a ladies clothing boutique (my Unified Theory of Downtown Business Replacement states that eventually every downtown retail slot will be filled by either a chain store, a ladies clothing boutique or a bar).
We got a lot of play from the downtown crazies and homeless, and the boss's approach was relatively enlightened. To go orders were fine, but I wasn't to seat them. A restaurant can't afford a rep as "that place where the crazy homeless people eat". When I asked how to handle these rejections, he said it would be easy- I could play it low key because "...they know they're inappropriate!" And he was right, I mostly got by with body language, a look, a neat shake of the head.
The only disaster was the barefoot, hairy, shirtless guy in the tattered Hulk pant who looked like he'd just busted out of the joint via sewer pipe, ala Shawshank Redemption. And really, that went down the only way it possibly could; under an avalanche of waiters, cooks and dishwashers.
Anyway.
I head over and say in my authoritative Patriarchy voice, "Can I help you with anything?"
"I'll be quiet, I'll be quiet! I'm going to buy stuff! I'll be quiet!" she jabbers.
"We don't mind you hanging out, but you have to maintain a little better."
"I SAID I'LL BE QUIET!"
"Okay."
So far, so good.
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