Business, None Of Yours

It’s been too long since I posted anything here. I won’t make excuses about it. I just haven’t felt like blogging. But I do have a story for you, so there’s that.

A few weeks ago, a very busy Sunday morning. We were terribly understaffed that day, so the long lines seemed longer and short tempers seemed shorter. In the midst of this delicate ballet of chaos, this happened:

Cool Customer: “Did you just steal that?”

Uncool Customer: “What? No. I didn’t.”

Cool Customer: “Yes, you did. I just saw you take that.”

Not entirely sure what was happening, I looked over the pastry case to see the Uncool Customer was one of our cheaters who doesn’t like to pay the price of the thing she’s ordering, preferring instead to tell us what she pays for. Yeah, no.

Cool Customer (to me): “She just took the ads out of the Sunday paper right there.”

Uncool Customer (to the Cool Customer): “You know, I didn’t. And it’s none of your business anyway.”

Cool Customer: “Yes, I watched you. You took them right out of the paper there. Those are for sale, they’re not just there for you to take. And it is my business. I come here and spend my money here to support this business and when you steal from them, you make it my business. So why don’t you just put that back?”

I’m so in love with my customer right now, I can’t even speak. I whisper “thank you” to her.

Uncool Customer: “You know, whatever. I’ll put it back, then. You don’t have to be so rude about it.”

Cool Customer: “You stole from this store and you act like it’s not a big deal. Who’s being rude? Put them back. In fact–” she yoinks the ads out of the thief’s hands and passes them to me–“Why not just give them back now?”

I take the ads and place them on my side of the counter, noting many approving looks from folks in line.

Uncool Customer: “You know, it’s not a big deal. I didn’t take it off the rack, it was from over there.” She gestured toward the basket where people put papers they’ve paid for and read, so others can read them.

Cool Customer: “Yeah, no you didn’t. You took it from the rack there. Those are for sale. The store is supposed to sell those.”

Me: “Did you take it from the rack there?”

Uncool Customer: “Well, yeah, but…”

Me: “Yeah, see those are for sale. People expect to get the whole paper when they buy one. If you want to look in the basket for the ads, that’s fine. Those are paid for.”

Orders are taken and Cool and Uncool move down to pick up their drinks. We continue down the line, helping the customers who patiently waited while that scenario played out. A minute or so later and my supervisor motions to me. I step over and she asks “Did we charge her for a paper?” indicating Uncool Customer. “Nope. We didn’t,” I say as I head back to my register. On my way I hear the supervisor say “We can help you buy a paper if you like…”

A short time later, Uncool Customer appears at my end of the counter again. I’m getting pastries out of the case and she stands there with her hand on her hip and a says with a sneer, “You know, I’ve been coming to this store for 15 years and I don’t appreciated being treated that way.”

Me: “Really? You’ve been coming here all that time, stealing our papers and paying a fraction of the cost of your drink and you don’t like being called out on your shitty behavior?”

Out loud I said, “Well, I understand that. But you should know that the newspapers are there for us to sell. If we don’t sell them, we still have to pay for them. If they’re incomplete, people may not want them and then the store still has to pay for them. It’s our responsibility to sell them, you see?”

Uncool Customer: “But what’s the difference? I took it from the basket.”

Me: “No, you said you took the ads out of the paper on the rack, which is also what the other customer said.”

Uncool Customer: “Well, it doesn’t matter anyway. Most people just throw the ads away…”

Me: “That may be, but you can’t just take them out of the papers we’re supposed to sell. If you want to take them from papers people have bought and left here, that’s fine. But not the ones we need to sell.”

Uncool Customer: “It’s not a big deal, you know. All my friends get the paper and they just throw them away, so it doesn’t matter.”

Me: “Then why not mooch the ads off your fucking friends instead of stealing from us?”

Out loud I said, “Well, again, that may be. But as I said, we need to sell the papers and don’t want to be selling them missing any sections, including the ads.”

Uncool Customer: “Well, I just take them home to read and then I bring them back when I’m done.”

Me: “Uhhhh, yeah. That sounds plausible. You really think I’m stupid, don’t you?”

Out loud: “In any case, you can’t take the ads from papers we need to sell. That’s really the bottom line there.”

Uncool Customer: “Fine, I’ll just get them from the basket. But I don’t like how I was treated.”

Ugh. Every time it was explained to her that she can’t just take the ads out of the paper, she changed her tack: “It’s not important” “People just throw them away” “My friends all…” “I just borrow them” and on and on.

Lady, you are not the victim here. You are the thief. You got caught. Deal with it.

Time Is An Illusion

Lunchtime, doubly so. So said the great Douglas Adams. Of course, that doesn’t excuse the two weeks, give or take, that have passed since my last post. Well, you know… work, life, laziness… excuses of one kind or another. I’m here now, and maybe probably back on the bloggy horse.

Really busy at work yesterday, slammin’ busy. Long lines for many hours with little relief. It’s good, but exhausting. Patience wears thin on both sides of the counter. Yesterday, The Boss decided we needed to listen to classical music for four hours. Now, I’ve got nothing against classical, but it’s not exactly conducive to, you know, being energetic at work. I’m guessing he thought it would help keep the patients, er, customers calm.

In the midst of all that came this interesting display of selfish customer nonsense. Imagine, if you will, waiting patiently in line until it’s your turn. While ordering, imagine another customer who’s already completed her order and is on her way out with her drink. Picture her, in your mind’s eye, spotting a CD she can’t live without. Now, see her behind you, waving to the clerk with the CD as if to say “I want this.” The clerk notices her over your shoulder and smiles, nodding. Now, imagine her, as you’re still mid-transaction, barging in next to you at the register, thrusting that precious CD toward the clerk so he can ring it up for her real quick. “WTF?” you think to yourself.

Now, imagine the look of shock and dismay on her face as the clerk smiles and calmly (perhaps thanks to the music?)  says, “Yes, I can get that for you. Just go ahead and get in the line.” The clerk gestures to the end of the line, which is now only about six customers.  Satisfying, right?

“Wait. I have to get back in line?” She pouts, sighs and ultimately leaves, returning us to our happy place.

No, of course you don’t have to get back in line. Buying your drink five minutes ago entitles you to come back at any time and go straight to the front of the line. These other customers don’t matter. They might not even exist.

Idiot.

Rock And Roll Nerd

A friend of mine sent me a link to this video of Tim Minchin performing a song about prejudice. And since I can’t easily link that clip, here’s another version (with extended lyrics but no backing band):

I didn’t know who Tim was, but liked the song a lot. It led me to check out all the songs on this page here*. Which led me to this:

And that is all I have today.

* I highly recommend the Pope song. Unless you might be offended.

Just Wow

I would like to begin by stating for the record that I am not exaggerating when I say this may be the strangest encounter I’ve ever had with a customer. I only hope I can do it justice here.

Working nights is a lot different from working the morning shift. For one thing, it’s a lot slower at night. And the freaks come out at night, apparently.

About a half hour before closing, my supervisor and coworker saw this chick pull up and get out of her car. Apparently they’d interacted with her before, as they suddenly got pretty weirded out. I looked up just in time to see her do an odd little side-to-side move in front of the door, as if she were dodging several people. Except she was the only one there. She finally made it into the store and stopped in her tracks about halfway between the door and the register. Something she was carrying was making a lot of noise–it might have been her phone with a truly awful ringtone, or it might have been one of these:

It's like an iPOD, but someone else chooses the songs. And there are commercials. And it sounds like crap.

After she silenced the thing, she stood there, swaying slightly with her eyes closed, as if she were meditating on her next move. Or maybe she was still hearing the song that was playing on her radio/phone/whatever.  A minute or so later, she scampered down the hall to the restrooms. Yes. Scampered. My coworkers looked at me like “Did you just see that?” and all I could think of was “Well, maybe she had to go really bad, and that was like the pee-pee dance in motion?”

Several minutes passed before she came back out. She approached the register. The first thing I noticed was the loose tank top she was wearing, slung off to the side to expose an ill-fitting bustier that appeared at least a couple of sizes too big for her breasts. Which resulted not in pushed up boobs and cleavage, rather boobs that sort of floated behind the rigid cups of the bustier. In short, not really sexy. Not that sexy is what I’m after in a customer, but if you’re gonna wear a bustier under your tank top, at least make sure it fits. Note: I was going to provide images to illustrate, but got distracted when I googled “bustier.” I’m sure you can understand.

Wardrobe issues aside, the other thing I noticed was that she looked wasted. And not in the slightly sexy way you’re likely to find if you google “stoned chicks.” No, she was out of it in a way that suggested she was not at her best in life. I should point out here that I have no problem with recreational drug use. What you do in the privacy of your home is your business. But if you come into my store high as fuck, I can’t be held responsible for finding sadness and/or humor in your situation.

Me: “So, hey. What would you like tonight?”

Trainwreck (swaying slightly again, eyes closed): “Ummmmmm…. Okay… Okay. Yeah… So, I’ll…. have… an… a… one of your blended icy thingies…”

Me: “Okay, what size.”

Trainwreck: “Okay… and a ummm… oh. Um… a small one… yeah. Small. Yeah… And I want a, um… iced white… white mocha whatever… iced, yeah…”

Me (trying desperately not to laugh as both my coworkers escaped into the safety of the back room): “Got it, anything else?”

At this point she looked pretty distressed, like she’d messed up the order or forgotten something, or both. And to make matters worse, another customer had arrived.

Trainwreck: “Uhhhhmmm, I think… no, wait. What? No…wait, okay hold on… Okay, can you put me on hold while I figure it out? Help those guys…” And then she ambled away, possibly to receive instructions from the Mothership.

After I helped the other customers, she came back and we went through the first part again, to make sure we had it right. Then she ordered a hot drink, her own, which went pretty smoothly. The last drink, which ended up being another “iced white mocha whatever” was a little more difficult.

Trainwreck: “Okay, so… yeah, okay, so umm… a white moch… mocha thing, but… agh! does he want whipped cream? I don’t know… umm… ugh!” I was a little concerned that she was putting too much pressure on herself, so I suggested “maybe a little?” but she wasn’t really hearing me. She continued fretting about it: “I just want to make him happy, you know?  Argh! I don’t… I don’t know…” She spread her arms, palms up and tilted her face up to the ceiling, eyes closed. “God? What do you think?”

Yes. Really. I am not making this up. Or this: After a few seconds of waiting, and apparently not getting an answer, she cupped her hand behind her ears. “Come on… come on… Okay, good. Thank you… Yes, put whipped cream on it.”

At this point I thought I’d seen and heard everything I could that would surprise me. Naturally, I was wrong:

“I need to get a bank account.” (waves a wad of $20 bills around) “It’s not safe to have this much cash, you know.”

No, it’s not.

“I used to be a dancer. I would walk into the club with $700. $1000. Nobody ever bothered me. I’m kind of intimidating. Do I seem intimidating to you?”

No, you really don’t.

“Agh! I’m so tired. I have sleep apnea, you know. People think I’m on drugs, but I’m not. I have never done drugs. Except one time when I was 13 I smoked pot and I was all like (makes a face with her tongue hanging out) on the couch.”

Oh. Huh.

“I’m wasting your time, aren’t I?”

No, are you kidding? You’re writing tonight’s blog post.

Welcome To The Magnited States Of America, Please Turn Off Your Phone

I. Love. This.

Read the story here.

I’m going to write a post about customers with entitlement issues, but I don’t want to take away from the stand-alone beauty of this, so I will save it for another time.