I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 35

, , , , | Right | October 8, 2020

I am out with my four-year-old daughter at the beach. My wife calls to tell me to pick some fresh vegetables we had ran out of. The grocery store is on our way home, so it’s okay.

At the store, I exchange pleasantries with the owner (an old classmate of mine) and stay outside looking for what we need, while my daughter enters the store to talk with the owner’s son (same age, same preschool).

The owner has two customers inside the store. Next to me is a lovely old lady that asks if I can help put some of her groceries in her cart, especially two five-kg bags of potatoes. I see no reason not to and I put them in the cart.

She thanks me, half in my language, and half in Russian. I reply in kind, as I understand some of the language from when I was growing up. She smiles and waves goodbye and I return to my browsing. Then the other customer emerges…

Customer: “You! I want 3kg of onions, 4kg of potatoes and 3kg of tomatoes! And be fast about it! I’m in a hurry!”

I turn around to see a middle-aged woman in a sundress, sunglasses, big hat, THAT stereotypical haircut, with her arms crossed in front of her and tapping her foot. The store is self-service.  

I’m wearing swim trunks, an old t-shirt, flip-flops, my beach towel is draped on my shoulder and I am carrying a ridiculously huge beach bag. I give her no mind and return to my shopping. Big mistake, as she grabs me by the shoulder!

Customer: “I gave you an order boy! Now do it or I’ll get you fired!”

Me: “I don’t work here!”

Customer: “Don’t give me that BS! I saw you helping that other woman.”

Me: “She kindly asked for my help to move the bags. I still don’t work here.”

Customer: “So you only help your compatriots you little s***? What a disgrace!”

She then goes on a very racist rant, cursing every other word. At some point, we had gathered spectators. The owner had come out, along with the kids. My daughter decides to come to my “rescue”.

Daughter: “Why are you screaming at my father? He already told you he doesn’t work here.”

Customer: “Because he doesn’t know his place! Now go away!”

The owner is about to step in, when my daughter turns around, drops her bikini bottom, moons her and blows a raspberry. The customer is momentarily stunned, before she manages to say:

Customer: “That’s… rude.”

Daughter: “Well, I’m four. What’s your excuse?”

At that point, the owner steps in and tells her to leave and that her business is not welcomed there. The rest of us have a good laugh, we pick our groceries and go home.

Related:
I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 34

I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 33
I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 32
I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 31

I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 30

1 Thumbs
655