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The Press Democrat
Mall Justice Is Swift And Harsh
By Bud Stanchion
Mall Security Guard
March 14, 2006 | Issue 33
By Bud Stanchion
Mall Security Guard
March 16, 2006 | Issue 33
My name is Stanchion. I walk a cruel beat. I do not work in an office cubicle or behind a counter. The promenades and boutiques of the Santa Rosa Mall are my home. I am a mall security guard.
Don't thank me. I'm not in it for the accolades. If you just respect your fellow shoppers and throw away your cups when you're finished, that's all the thanks I need.
Monday, 12:14 p.m. I am dispatched to Orange Julius on a disturbance call. A Caucasian woman in her early 30s is complaining about a hair in her drink. I can hear her carrying on all the way from The Sunglass Hut. But when she lays eyes on my uniform, she gets quiet real quick and starts listening to reason. She might have torn the place apart if I hadn't been there.
Monday, 2:33 p.m. I get a report of a dog entering the mall at the Sears lower-level entrance. Arriving on the scene, I see an adult golden retriever leading a blind African-American male in his late 50s. Seeing-eye dogs are the one exception to the mall's strict no-pets rule. Crisis averted.
I can still remember my first day on the job. It was trial by fire. Not an hour after my shift started, I exited the service corridor and saw some kids walking up the down escalator. Escalators were apparently a big joke to them. A big joke until they got a taste of mall justice, Stanchion style. I told them that if I ever saw their faces around there again, they'd better not be heading up the down escalator. That straightened them out, but good.
I see the would-be troublemakers every day, those who would shout or litter or run. Then there are the punks who think it's funny to throw wadded-up mall maps or Arby's wrappers off the level-two balcony at helpless passersby. When they see me, a kind of resentment flares up in their eyes. They see me, and they know: Bud is here, and that garbage isn't gonna fly. Their twisted idea of "fun" is not welcome here.
It all started when I was a young boy. Every Saturday, my mother would take me to the mall. My pulse quickened at the sight of the Kay-Bee Toy & Hobby Shop and Dream Machine video arcade. But more than anything, the mall security guards fascinated me. Their crisp uniforms, their regal bearing, that sense of purpose
The Press Democrat
Mall Justice Is Swift And Harsh
By Bud Stanchion
Mall Security Guard
March 14, 2006 | Issue 33
By Bud Stanchion
Mall Security Guard
March 16, 2006 | Issue 33
My name is Stanchion. I walk a cruel beat. I do not work in an office cubicle or behind a counter. The promenades and boutiques of the Santa Rosa Mall are my home. I am a mall security guard.
Don't thank me. I'm not in it for the accolades. If you just respect your fellow shoppers and throw away your cups when you're finished, that's all the thanks I need.
Monday, 12:14 p.m. I am dispatched to Orange Julius on a disturbance call. A Caucasian woman in her early 30s is complaining about a hair in her drink. I can hear her carrying on all the way from The Sunglass Hut. But when she lays eyes on my uniform, she gets quiet real quick and starts listening to reason. She might have torn the place apart if I hadn't been there.
Monday, 2:33 p.m. I get a report of a dog entering the mall at the Sears lower-level entrance. Arriving on the scene, I see an adult golden retriever leading a blind African-American male in his late 50s. Seeing-eye dogs are the one exception to the mall's strict no-pets rule. Crisis averted.
I can still remember my first day on the job. It was trial by fire. Not an hour after my shift started, I exited the service corridor and saw some kids walking up the down escalator. Escalators were apparently a big joke to them. A big joke until they got a taste of mall justice, Stanchion style. I told them that if I ever saw their faces around there again, they'd better not be heading up the down escalator. That straightened them out, but good.
I see the would-be troublemakers every day, those who would shout or litter or run. Then there are the punks who think it's funny to throw wadded-up mall maps or Arby's wrappers off the level-two balcony at helpless passersby. When they see me, a kind of resentment flares up in their eyes. They see me, and they know: Bud is here, and that garbage isn't gonna fly. Their twisted idea of "fun" is not welcome here.
It all started when I was a young boy. Every Saturday, my mother would take me to the mall. My pulse quickened at the sight of the Kay-Bee Toy & Hobby Shop and Dream Machine video arcade. But more than anything, the mall security guards fascinated me. Their crisp uniforms, their regal bearing, that sense of purpose
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