The Fall of a Dictator

Jobsworth: (almost strictly British) A low ranking official who follows their instructions and procedure to the letter. Often just to piss you off and to make them feel important.

For years he had me shaking in my boots every time I wanted to seek a little entertainment. Sometimes I would actively avoid his domain, either sending in reinforcements or going without on desperate nights of boredom. His fascist rule and unreasonable policies were unyielding. He was the manager of Hollywood Video, and he scared the pants off of me.

The first time I met Dan* I made the mistake of trying to rent a movie without a card. As I lived abroad and was only in town once in awhile, I used my parents' account. Before I had the chance to explain he barked: “license please.” I fumbled in my wallet, giggling nervously as one tends to do in the presence of intimidating people. But why was he so intimidating? He was as short as he was wide, had a mouth full of braces, a pale face riddled with raging zits and freckles, curly red hair and couldn’t have been more than 25. Yet something about his stern features and his inability to fold beneath my charm disturbed me.

He grabbed the license out of my hand, screwing up his face as he said my name. “Doesn’t match anyone’s name in the system,” he said. “But my name is different than my parents…so my license won’t…” I started to say. Sighing loudly, he rolled his eyes and said: “Primary account holder name?” Prickles of heat pranced across my shoulders as a queue of anxious parents and children tinkered behind me.

“It’s Fitz*, but my parents are divorced, so my last name is different, can you just use my phone number to look it up?” I said. Dan shook his head as if I’d just asked him to submit himself to Chinese water torture. Finally, he succumbed, mumbling about how it wasn’t supposed to be done this way.

The next time I went to rent a movie, I made sure to go at a different time, hoping it wasn’t Dan’s shift. I slipped into the shop, smiling at the harmless older woman at the front desk, and happily took my time making a selection. As I sauntered up to the desk to pay, grabbing a box of jujyfruits to celebrate, I heard: “Card and license please.” My eyes flashed up as the woman stepped aside and Dan resumed his rightful position.

“OK, look. I don’t have a card, and last time it was a real hassle so can I just get a new card?”
“Name and license?”
“Well, it’s under my parents’ account, so their name is…"
“Account holder has to ask for their own card.”

Crooking my jaw and holding onto the counter I prepared for the Mount Vesuvius of anger in me to blow. But it didn’t! Where was all of the aggression and bravado that usually helped me to tell people to stick it where the sun don’t shine? My hands were actually shaking. I took a deep breath.

“My parents want a new card. I promise you. They asked me to get one tonight.” I said.
“No can do. Tell your parents if they want a card, to come in themselves.”

A few days later I was cycling on the local bike trail when through the mist ahead a large looming figure emerged. As I got closer I saw it was Dan. He was walking quickly and tensely, as if a pole had literally been inserted into his ass. Across the large expanse of his man boobs, I saw the Hollywood Video logo sewn onto his shirt. We were miles from the video store. It suddenly dawned on me: yes, Dan was a big douche, but he had to walk miles to work, every day. Suddenly I felt a rush of sympathy. Who wouldn’t be a little annoyed after walking miles, covered in sweat, through rain or shine, to get paid minimum wage and deal with morons like me who had no card? And no wonder Dan hated me so much, I probably reminded him of all those bitchy girls in high school who'd never give him the time of day. How could he know that I was the champion of all nerds, dorks and the generally down and out? Next time I would bring my new card, and I would be so nice, he couldn’t hate me if he tried. Kill him with kindness.

“Card please.”
“Hey Dan! Here you go! I finally got a new one,” I said, smiling widely, piling popcorn and soda on the counter to surpass the ten dollar minimum needed to pay with a credit card.
“That will be $11.50” he said, still frowning.
“Cool. Thanks so much. Here’s my card.”

Dan swiped it, while I grinned stupidly, despite the fact that his eyebrows were still furrowed.
“You know what? Your card just froze my whole system. GREAT!” he said, his voice raising dangerously. He looked like a three hundred pound time bomb ready to blow.

“Ok, Ok, I have cash.” I said, starting to sweat, and digging around in my wallet. To my horror, all I had was a pile of dollar coins that the MTA ticket machine had spit out at me the other day.

“What are these, is this some kind of joke?”
“Um, they’re dollar coins.”
“Dollar what? I’ve never seen these in my life.”
“They give them out in all of the New York City subway and ticket machines. I swear they are legal tender.”
“Well, I wouldn’t know, I never go to Manhattan.”
No shit, I thought.
“Look, I promise they’re real, OK?”
“OK, fine. Now step aside, you’re holding up the whole line.”

Two years passed until I attempted to go into Hollywood Video again. This time, I brought backup--a friend who I'd prepared with horror stories of Dan. We both laughed and said that he couldn’t possibly still be working there. But as we stepped in, there he was, bigger and angrier than ever. I came prepared with my card and the more common paper variety dollar.

As I stepped up and handed him my goods, he said:

“I see your account has had no activity for two years. Looks like you have to pay the reactivation fee.” Oh for the love of all that’s holy!

What a surprise it was, then, this weekend, when I drove by Hollywood Video and saw "Going out of Business" signs and "Everything Must Go!" all over the dusty and forgotten windows.

My first thought was: HAHA! F*ck you Dan and your FN Rules! Whattaya gonna do now? Walk to Blockbuster two towns over?

My second thought was: Guess I have to take the plunge and use Netflix like everyone else.

My third and most annoying thought (which shows you how crazy and wussy I am) was: Poor Dan (seriously on verge of tears).