Unfiltered Story #104556

, , , , | Unfiltered | January 29, 2018

(I work at a grocery store. One of the tasks that we crew members have is a ‘cart run,’ which is basically just going out into the parking lot and collecting carts and bringing them back into the store. One day, in the middle of February during a snowstorm, as I was struggling to push carts through the sludge, a woman in a floor-length fur coat comes up to me and grabs my arm, stopping me dead in my tracks. She speaks in the American version of an upper-crust posh accent.)

Woman: “Really, dear, I must commend you for your hard work.”

Me: “Oh, thank—”

Woman: “I’m sure that if you work hard enough, you might be able to make something out of yourself. I’m sure that for people of your social status, it must be so difficult, but you shouldn’t let that bother you.”

(She smiles in that way that people do when they think they’ve just done a good deed, as though she just paid me a compliment, and I’m sure in her head, it was a compliment. Meanwhile, I’m completely floored.)

Me: “Excuse me?”

Woman: “Well, being part of the working class and all—”

(At this point, I’ve had enough and interrupt her, adopting a similar posh-like accent. I just want to get the carts back into the store and get out of the freezing cold and biting wind.)

Me: “Ma’am, I’ll have you know, I am currently working on my master’s degree at Miskatonic University in Arkham, Massachusetts. I’m sure you’ve heard of it?”

Woman: *stammering* “Oh, yes, of course, who hasn’t heard of Miska—”

Me: “Miskatonic University. My major is archaeology with a specific study on ancient tomes and texts. Have you ever heard of the Necronomicon, written by the mad Arab, Abdul Alhazred?”

Woman: “Oh, I’m sure I have…”

Me: “My work with that tome is going to change everything. So you see, I am not simply a cart-pusher or cashier. Now, if you don’t mind…”

(I gesture to the carts, which have started to slide sideways in the harsh winter winds.)

Woman: “Oh, yes, of course. My apologies.”

Me: “Hm.”

(She stumbles off to her car, a Mercedes Benz, and skids out of the parking lot. I guess luxury cars and snowstorms don’t mix. In all, I don’t know what made me more sad; her affluenza and oblivious personality, or her lack of knowledge concerning classic American literature.)

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