Draco Sērus Nunquam Titillandus

, , , , , , | Working | July 24, 2018

(Since you can never tell tone in these stories, I’d like to clarify that my tone during this conversation was friendly, then transitioned to accidentally but unapologetically bewildered, while the owner’s tone was like Draco Malfoy being forced to talk to Muggles. I’ve been to this animal produce store several times before. A family of three owns it and runs it by themselves. The son is a chipper Richie Cunningham clone and his parents need to swap the sides they sleep in bed, because they’ve both rolled out of bed on the wrong side every time I see them. I shop there because it’s the closest, most reasonably-priced place that I know of. My husband and I have a huge to-do list for around the house, with a few errands to run downtown. While each of the locations we need to visit are close to each other, morning traffic can be complicated, and they open at different times. So, we order the visits the best way we can to get to each store upon opening, as early as possible, to get home quickly. I double-check websites and Google to be sure we don’t waste time. First stop: produce store. It’s 7:55 am. We’re there five minutes early. No big deal; we’re happy to sit.)

Husband: “Do you find it suspicious they’ve not moved any of the bales out?”

Me: “A little bit, but they’re probably not busy this early and can move them while they’re open.”

(Eight am comes and goes.)

Husband: “They’re probably running late. Let’s go to [Store #2] and come back.”

(We do. We get back to the produce store around 8:40.)

Me: “They’re still not open. I’ll check their website… Yep, 8:00 am Saturdays.”

Husband: “Maybe it’s not been updated.”

Me: “Google says 8:00 am. So does their Facebook page.”

Husband: “Weird.”

(We run another errand. We return at 9:30 and they’re open. We get what we need and go to pay.)

Owner: *grunts*

Me: “Hello! Just these and a bale of straw, please.”

Owner: “Sure.”

Me: “Just out of curiosity, do you open at nine on Saturday?”

Owner: *looks at me sideways* “Yes.”

Me: “Oh, okay, no worries.”

Owner: “Why?”

Me: “Oh, no, it’s just that we thought it was eight.”

Owner: “It’s not.”

Me: “Oh. That’s odd.”

Owner: “No, it’s not.”

Me: “Well, I just double-checked, and Google said eight.”

Owner: “It’s never been eight.”

Me: “And your website, too.”

Owner: “No, it doesn’t.”

Me: “Yep, and your Facebook page, too.”

Owner: “They’ve never said eight. You read wrong. Eight am, Monday to Friday.”

Me: “Look. It doesn’t matter too much to me, but you probably want to check yourself.”

Owner: “We’ve never opened at eight on a weekend. Here. Take a business card so you know when you can come next time.”

(I read it.)

Me: “It says eight.”

(Her face turns red, and I think I spot steam pouring out her ears.)

Owner: “I just had these printed. Stupid company printed it wrong.”

Me: *being accidentally cocky, I let slip* “Do they run Google, your Facebook, and your website, too?”

(The owner looks like she’s gotten a third-degree sunburn, and steam is definitely pouring out her ears now. Wondering what is taking so long, my husband has come back inside and overheard part of the conversation.)

Husband: “The sign on the door says eight, too.”

(I lost it and cracked a giggle, while the owner just stared in pure rage. Honestly, my morning was thrown upside-down, but I wasn’t even angry about it. We made do. They’ve never been nice people to deal with, and it’s not the first time they’d given the “customer is always wrong” attitude.)

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