“Not during business hours, chief,” said Fred Winthrop.  “We’ve got customers in here right now, and I work on commission.”

            
             “I wanna die,” the man pleaded, steadying himself against the check-out counter.

            
             Winthrop glanced uneasily at his assistant, Andy.

            
             “I want to go downtown to the tank.  I ain’t got nowhere else to go.  They know me there.  Could you call the police?”

            
             He started shaking his arms like an evangelist.

            
             “I wanna go downtown.  Can you call the police?  What kind of a shoe store are you running here?  I’m a goddamned customer!” he shouted.

            
             “Settle down, chief.  I’ll call in a few minutes.  Why don’t you take a look at some of our new dress shoes over there?  We just got a shipment in from Italy,” Winthrop said, smoothing out his moustache with his right hand.

            
             He pointed toward the rack of men’s shoes.  The man lurched slightly as he let go of the counter.

            
             “You’d be smart to buy some before they got picked over.  There’s a sale on sneakers too.  Adidas, Nike.  Some real good buys.  You want to look good, don't you? When you go downtown, right?”

            
             The man nodded.

            
             “Take a look over there. I'll call the cops, okay?  What’s a good time for you?” Winthrop asked.

            
             “Nine o’clock,” the man answered.

            
             Winthrop glanced at his wristwatch.

            
             “There's always paperwork involved when you get arrested. Nine o'clock. We're cutting it close.”

            
             The unshaven man stumbled toward the glossy shoes, hung in long racks separated by size and style like choir members.  He picked up a pair of dress shoes and carried on a lengthy conversation with the soft Italian leather.

            At the front desk, Winthrop cradled the telephone on his shoulder and rang up a sale for a customer.  When he was finished, he walked over to where the man conversed with another pair of shoes.

            “Nice choice. Florsheim. But we've got a problem.  The police won’t come to get you just because you’re loaded or unhappy,” Winthrop informed him.

            
             “They won’t?  Goddam it!  I’m gonna tear this place apart,” he said, then threw down the shoes.

            
             “That’s the ticket. Now you're talking. But look, you don’t want to do that.  We close in half an hour.  If you tear this place apart, we, meaning Andy and myself, will have to stay and clean up.”

            
             Winthrop pointed to his assistant.

            
             “I wanna die,” the man yelled.

            
             Two other customers were in the store but quickly eased themselves toward the front door.

            
             Winthrop folded his arms to his chest.

            
             “I understand your concerns completely, but it means our overtime will eventually be passed on to our customers.  You don’t want to be responsible for that, do you?”

            
             The man scowled. Winthrop relaxed momentarily, thinking he had made a breakthrough.

            “I’m gonna tear this fucking place apart,” he threatened again.

            
             “Hold your horses. We want to go home in half an hour.  Andy and I have been here for eight hours and have looked at a lot of feet and some of them weren't very pretty.  Can you cut us some slack?” Winthrop pleaded as if he were talking to Elliot Schwartz, the company CEO.

            
             “I wanna die.”

            
             “Okay, okay.  I think we can work something out,” Winthrop said.

            
             The man looked at him strangely.

            
             “We’ll have to work together on this. You, me and Andy,” he said.  “What’s your name, partner?”

            
             “We’re partners?  You want to know my name?  It’s Glen,” the man replied.

            
             “Glen, I’m Fred and that’s Andy over there,” he said motioning toward his assistant.

            Andy nodded at Glen.

           
             “I’ll call the cops again and tell them you’re gonna tear the place apart, and we’ll wait for them to come. Okay?”

            
             Glen listened intently to the plan.

            
             “We’ll be cool and calm until they arrive, right?” Winthrop asked.

            
             Glenn swayed a bit as he thought about the proposition.  Then he nodded.

            
             “When they come inside to get you, let’s see, what do we have in here that you can knock over?”

            
             Winthrop surveyed the premises.

            
             “Hey Andy, did you stock the sock rack today?” he called out.

            
             “No,” his assistant replied.

            
             Winthrop pointed toward large display of socks.

            
             “See that sock rack over there?  You can knock that over.  They’ve got to take you downtown for doing that.  It’s disturbing the peace or disorderly conduct or something.  So how 'bout it?  Do we have our game plan down, partner? Do we have our ducks in a row?”

            
             “Yeah,” Glen said calmly, though somewhat bewildered at the team spirit that enveloped the store.

            
             “You stay over there by the sock rack until I give you the signal from the front desk.  When you get the signal, knock the daylights out of the sock rack.  Is that a deal, Glen?” he asked, thrusting out his hand.

            
             “Sure, Fred,” Glen replied.

            
             “Just keep a lid on it until the police arrive,” Winthrop encouraged him.  “We had a few customers in here, but you scared them off.”

            
             Winthrop returned to the front desk and placed another call to the police.  Glen stood awkwardly, but obediently in front of the sock rack.

            They waited and waited. The police didn't arrive, and the clock inched towards nine o'clock.

            
             “I hope they get here before closing,” Winthrop whispered to Andy, “or we're going to have more trouble.”

            
             “What are we going to do if they’re not here by nine o’clock?” Andy replied.

            
             “I don’t know, but we’re going to have a big mess anyway when he knocks over the sock rack,” Winthrop said.

            
             “It took me an hour sort them the last time,” Andy complained.

            
             “We screwed ourselves, Andy.”

            
             “Looks that way.”

            
             Winthrop, deep in thought, looked toward the ceiling.

            
             “This is beautiful. Why didn't I think of it sooner?” he said, rummaging under the cash register for a few golf balls and the practice putter he used when business got slow.

            
             “I want to die,” Glen moaned, bored and agitated from standing in front of the sock rack with nothing to do.

            
             Winthrop looked at his wristwatch.

            
             “Glen, we’re going to Plan B,” Winthrop said.

            
             “I wanna die.”

            
             “First things first.  You see that pick-up truck in the parking lot?  The one with the small chip in the windshield?”

            
             Glen went to the front window. He squinted and rubbed his eyes.

            
             “Yeah,” Glen answered.

            
             “I want a new windshield.  Here’s some golf balls and my putter to break the windshield.  Just make sure the cops see you throwing the golf balls and taking a good whack with the putter.”

            
             Winthrop took Glen’s hand and placed the golf balls in it.  Glen lifted one of the balls close to his eyes and stared at it.

             
             “My insurance company will pay for a new windshield. It's a win-win situation.  Can you do that for me, partner?”

            
             Glen grabbed the putter.

            
             “You wait outside until the cops come,” Winthrop said.

            
             He accompanied Glen to the front door and promptly locked it when Glen stepped outside.

            
             “Well, at least we got him out of the store,” Winthrop said to Andy.

            
             They began adding up the day's receipts.  Every few moments Winthrop glanced outside to see what Glen was doing. 

            Glen balanced himself with the putter and stared back into the store.  Winthrop pantomimed through the front glass and pointed toward the windshield.  He formed an imaginary golf ball in his hand, wound up, and hurled it.  After that he demonstrated how to use the putter to finish the job. Andy stood next to him and clapped.

            “I hope he bashes it in. I’m tired of looking at that crack in it.”

            He and Andy gave Glen the V-sign for Victory, thumbs up and the A.O.K signal.

            “I’m counting on you,” Winthrop mouthed from inside.

            Finally, a police cruiser crawled into the parking lot.  From the squad car, an officer eyed Glen.   Winthrop responded with anticipation and an anxious look on his face.

            “Throw it, throw it,” Winthrop yelled. “Throw the ball! Three putt the windshield!”

            Glen stood there motionless.  His hand and arm holding the golf ball was half cocked. The putter leaned against his hip.

            A small group of people leaving the health food store in the shopping center saw Glen and stopped to watch the situation.

            “Andy, he’s just standing there.  What about the windshield? This guy is a real fuck-up.”

            Winthrop hurried to the front door and unlocked it.

            “I wanna die.  I wanna die,” Glen said to the bald, heavy-set police officer who approached.

            “You again?” the officer said. “It's the second time this week you've pulled this shit.”

            When he heard that, Glen turned and hurled the golf ball at the plate glass window next to the front door. Winthrop ducked back inside. The golf ball put a small dimple in the glass. Not satisfied with the result, Glen took hold of Winthrop's putter and began swinging it like an axe and he was a fireman trying to rescue someone inside from a raging fire. He kept swinging until he shattered the glass all across the front of the store. The police officer stood there while he swung the putter like a wild man.

            When Glen finished destroying the glass across the front of the store he dutifully put his hands behind his back in order to be handcuffed.

            “You need to work on your short game,” the officer said, securing the handcuffs.

            Winthrop and Andy ran outside.

            The officer guided Glen into the back seat of the police cruiser.

            “Get the broom, Andy. We'll need some plywood too. Shit, I'd like to take a mulligan on this one.”