I worked with a guy named, for our sake, Barry.

Barry had a habit of telling me jokes I just told him a minute or two earlier, often butchering the joke and asking me how exactly it went. His favorite activity was telling the customers at the register how many girlfriends he had. On an average day he had four, but according to himself he ranged from anywhere between zero and seven girlfriends. He fancied himself a firefighter in much the same way four year olds fancy themselves superheroes. Sometimes he'd drop on by the aisle I was stocking to ask me how to open boxes. One time he asked me what salmon was, and when I told him it was fish, he wouldn't believe me. He demanded that it was not fish and that I explain what it really was as I adamantly tried to ignore him.

I know what you're thinking. Poor guy, clearly a special needs guy who needs a lot of help, right?

Yeah, you're right. He was a retard. But he wasn't some generic run of the mill retard. This guy was name brand premium retarded. He was at a specific level of retard that made him mildly functional yet wildly arrogant. Imagine if one of the dumbest people you'd ever met hadn't quite caught onto normal society and its functions, but had somehow caught on and pinpointed how to manipulate pity. Imagine if an extraordinarly obnoxious, drunk guy convinced the world he was just special and therefore could batter you over the head with complaints while simultaneously yelling at others.

Barry was a masterpiece of fuck-ups. He would argue in one breath and brag out the other. His breathing was confirmed only by a barrage of endless words. And every word he spoke rode on his being better than everyone else around him, to the point where everyone else around him might as well have been twigs. This guy was top-notch quality retarded, the kind of walking argument for eugenics that demands that empathy be crossed off the evolutionary checklist.

I have never met anyone that had so many words yet so little to say.

For his sake, I leave you with my favorite Barry exchange, unseen but heard.

He asked, "M'am, did you know I got a boxcutter? It's new!"

"Oh really? Wow! I've got some of those at home myself, you know." the customer replied.

And Barry, well, he had this covered.

"I actually have more box cutters than anyone else in the entire world."

The customer just kind of gave up at this point and perused aimlessly around the aisles while ignoring Barry's vigorous and hamfisted questions about how many girlfriends she had and how much firefighting she had done that year. She eventually left during one of Barry's very few breaths, hustling her way down the aisle and exiting out the front door as fast as possible.

But I couldn't leave that easily. I had to manage this fucker.