The Mysterious Mr. E. Shamoun
Hidden behind red saloon doors in the back of the store, many a customer would casually peruse the foreign films section before disappearing into the vast collection of penii and vaginas collected along the labyrinthine walls of the porn room.
The most intriguing customers were the shameless regulars, those customers that unabashedly entered the store, walked straight to those saloon doors, and burst into the porn room in preparation for a good time.
One customer, Kirakos, was quite blatant in his tastes, arriving every Wednesday afternoon and ask in his thick Russo-Armenian accent for the newest "Traynik (trans) Video." Once the video was in hand, he would take a break from selling fruit, masturbate to the video, then return it an hour later in the same bag now sticky with ejaculate.
Such return cases were typically referred to our perpetual underling, Sam, who, no matter how many times he was exposed to said nastiness, continued to be surprised by it.
Carla and her husband had produced five children with a sixth on the way. Four of these kids could walk, and taking advantage of their mobility, would begin to disrupt the order of the store, during which time, Carla would walk into the porn section, baby in tow, selecting the evenings entertainment for her and her husband.
One customer was revered beyond all others, the enigmatic Mr. E. Shamoun. My boss made it clear to all employees that when he entered the store, priority of service went to him.
Mr. E. Shamoun claimed to be an accountant. He had thick glasses and greasy hair. He wore button up white shirts that were just a bit too tight and tucked into his sweatpants, the waist of which was hidden behind a fanny pack that presumably carried his personal items. He often looked sweaty even though he was not sweating. And when he came to the store, he was there for business, the business of porn.
Every Wednesday the owner would head to a warehouse in Chatsworth and purchase the weeks new releases, porn videos packed in over sized boxes that we would then cut down and fit into our plastic rental boxes.
Once the boxes were broken down, the side strip not used for the case would be placed on a mini-marquee over the new porn video section.
Whenever Mr. E. Shamoun would come in our first task was to hand him the side strips of the videos that had left the "new release" shelf. He would pursue these strips, bringing them close to his face, examining titles like "More Dirty Debutantes 68" and "Andrew Blake's Pin Ups 2," separating them into two piles, handing back the pile that did not meet his needs.
Once finished, Mr. E. Shamoun would walk past the red doors, and begin to closely look at each new video. The time of each visit would vary based on the quantity and quality of the weeks videos, but he was thorough, taking his time before coming back to the counter with his week's stack.
We were instructed to check him out without payment. Opening his account page, one would often encounter a debt in the triple digits. Sometimes he would ask how much had accrued, other times he would leave, anxious to get home and get to business.
Unlike other accounts, Mr. E. Shamoun's debt was negotiable and only to be handled by the owner. On the occasions he did, he would reach into his fanny pack and pull out a wad of cash, counting out the amount negotiated before handing it over. Sometimes, the transaction included the offloading of a boxful of excess inventory given at a significant discount.
For a long time, my coworkers and I wondered what it was that Mr. E. Shamoun did with these videos. Sure, there was the sexual aspect, but collecting the side strips and the amount of attention to each video, plus the amount of late fees accrued implied something else.
That something else was the formation of an edited and curated personal collection of videos. Scenes carefully selected and copied, forming an anthology of sorts. One could easily imagine shelves holding the various compilations, labeled and organized for easy access in a darkened spare room, a vault of sort kept out of sight of guests, that at first was meant to be a collection of greatest hits but soon turned into an obsession that dominated his life outside of work.
After September 11th, 2001 Mr. E. Shamoun disappeared from the video store and our lives.
A lot of speculation followed.
Was he a terrorist? Was he in a cell in Guantanamo Bay? Or maybe he fled the country, taking his immense collection of porn with him? Maybe he had a heart attack? Or was attacked? Head trauma leading to his wandering the streets of Los Angeles, an amnesiac in dirty sweatpants and a half-tucked button-up shirt. Or did he finally discovered the internet, its treasure trove of easily accessible perversions calling to him, ensuring that he never need to leave his home.
The answer is as mysterious as the man, two riddles unlikely to be solved.
One customer, Kirakos, was quite blatant in his tastes, arriving every Wednesday afternoon and ask in his thick Russo-Armenian accent for the newest "Traynik (trans) Video." Once the video was in hand, he would take a break from selling fruit, masturbate to the video, then return it an hour later in the same bag now sticky with ejaculate.
Such return cases were typically referred to our perpetual underling, Sam, who, no matter how many times he was exposed to said nastiness, continued to be surprised by it.
Carla and her husband had produced five children with a sixth on the way. Four of these kids could walk, and taking advantage of their mobility, would begin to disrupt the order of the store, during which time, Carla would walk into the porn section, baby in tow, selecting the evenings entertainment for her and her husband.
One customer was revered beyond all others, the enigmatic Mr. E. Shamoun. My boss made it clear to all employees that when he entered the store, priority of service went to him.
Mr. E. Shamoun claimed to be an accountant. He had thick glasses and greasy hair. He wore button up white shirts that were just a bit too tight and tucked into his sweatpants, the waist of which was hidden behind a fanny pack that presumably carried his personal items. He often looked sweaty even though he was not sweating. And when he came to the store, he was there for business, the business of porn.
Every Wednesday the owner would head to a warehouse in Chatsworth and purchase the weeks new releases, porn videos packed in over sized boxes that we would then cut down and fit into our plastic rental boxes.
Once the boxes were broken down, the side strip not used for the case would be placed on a mini-marquee over the new porn video section.
Whenever Mr. E. Shamoun would come in our first task was to hand him the side strips of the videos that had left the "new release" shelf. He would pursue these strips, bringing them close to his face, examining titles like "More Dirty Debutantes 68" and "Andrew Blake's Pin Ups 2," separating them into two piles, handing back the pile that did not meet his needs.
Once finished, Mr. E. Shamoun would walk past the red doors, and begin to closely look at each new video. The time of each visit would vary based on the quantity and quality of the weeks videos, but he was thorough, taking his time before coming back to the counter with his week's stack.
We were instructed to check him out without payment. Opening his account page, one would often encounter a debt in the triple digits. Sometimes he would ask how much had accrued, other times he would leave, anxious to get home and get to business.
Unlike other accounts, Mr. E. Shamoun's debt was negotiable and only to be handled by the owner. On the occasions he did, he would reach into his fanny pack and pull out a wad of cash, counting out the amount negotiated before handing it over. Sometimes, the transaction included the offloading of a boxful of excess inventory given at a significant discount.
For a long time, my coworkers and I wondered what it was that Mr. E. Shamoun did with these videos. Sure, there was the sexual aspect, but collecting the side strips and the amount of attention to each video, plus the amount of late fees accrued implied something else.
That something else was the formation of an edited and curated personal collection of videos. Scenes carefully selected and copied, forming an anthology of sorts. One could easily imagine shelves holding the various compilations, labeled and organized for easy access in a darkened spare room, a vault of sort kept out of sight of guests, that at first was meant to be a collection of greatest hits but soon turned into an obsession that dominated his life outside of work.
After September 11th, 2001 Mr. E. Shamoun disappeared from the video store and our lives.
A lot of speculation followed.
Was he a terrorist? Was he in a cell in Guantanamo Bay? Or maybe he fled the country, taking his immense collection of porn with him? Maybe he had a heart attack? Or was attacked? Head trauma leading to his wandering the streets of Los Angeles, an amnesiac in dirty sweatpants and a half-tucked button-up shirt. Or did he finally discovered the internet, its treasure trove of easily accessible perversions calling to him, ensuring that he never need to leave his home.
The answer is as mysterious as the man, two riddles unlikely to be solved.
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