Crazy-Bags
Last Tuesday at around 3AM a young Jamaican came into the store.
“You got crazy bags back there?” he asked softly, indicating towards the cigar display. I had assumed he was searching for a particular type.
“No crazy bags?” he pondered in the same volume-we were the only ones in the store.
“You want bags?” I asked. I moved towards the post where they hung, waiting to be used, and picked up two or three of the large ones. “You can take as many as you like,” I insisted.
He smiled and chuckled. “No, no, not bags, crazy bags. You know, rubbers; for sex.”
I laughed along with him and pointed him towards aisle three where a vast assortment of condoms were available to anyone who didn’t want to pull out or risk a shotgun wedding.
While he made his selection I informed him that I’d never heard that term before.
“Don’t get too crazy,” I warned him as he left.
“You got crazy bags back there?” he asked softly, indicating towards the cigar display. I had assumed he was searching for a particular type.
“No crazy bags?” he pondered in the same volume-we were the only ones in the store.
“You want bags?” I asked. I moved towards the post where they hung, waiting to be used, and picked up two or three of the large ones. “You can take as many as you like,” I insisted.
He smiled and chuckled. “No, no, not bags, crazy bags. You know, rubbers; for sex.”
I laughed along with him and pointed him towards aisle three where a vast assortment of condoms were available to anyone who didn’t want to pull out or risk a shotgun wedding.
While he made his selection I informed him that I’d never heard that term before.
“Don’t get too crazy,” I warned him as he left.