Rated I For Immature

, , , , , | Right | December 26, 2018

(It is the day after Christmas, and everyone is SLAMMING our little game store. We have a line out the door most of the afternoon, and it is only just slowing down when my boss finally leaves. I’m working with a higher associate and a seasonal worker; I am a basic associate, and one of two girls on staff, the only girl in the store at the moment. A man comes up to my counter with a Tom Clancy game, which is a shooter game that is naturally rated M. It is the law in my state that we MUST card anyone who looks under 35 to 40 for rated-M games, and you MUST be 17 to buy.)

Me: “Good evening, sir! Is this all you need tonight?”

(The customer is a younger-looking fellow with a full beard, who looks to me to be college age. Kind of out of it, he nods to me.)

Customer: “Yes. Just that.”

Me: “All right! And do you have an ID?”

Customer: “No? Do I need to get my friend’s?” *gestures vaguely to the store*

Me: “That’ll work! I just need a valid ID.”

(The man calls his friend over, and I can immediately tell that he is not going to be a good customer. His eyes are red and his brow is immediately furrowed as he gestures at me.)

Friend: “Really? Are we really doing this? What kind of seventeen-year-old has a full beard and mustache?”

Me: *laughs* “Well, sir, I knew a kid in middle school with a full beard and mustache. That’s not really a gauge for me.”

Friend: “Come on. He’s obviously not seventeen.”

Me: “I still need to see an ID. Yours would work!”

Friend: *scowls* “Well. I’m really good friends with the store manager. Do you have to do this?”

(I know I’m dealing with a jerk. Our manager is well known for being a jerk, without meaning to, and also a stickler for rules. He even carded me once, despite having my birthdate on file. I know that my manager would never allow this to slide, so I steel myself and smile sweetly.)

Me: “I’m sorry, sir, but it’s the law. I have to card you or it will cost me my job.”

Friend: *uncomfortably shifting* “Well, I guess we could go get a PSN card and buy it online?”

(He won’t. He is buying pre-owned, which is about $20 cheaper than digital.)

Me: *smiling sweetly* “Oh, I can’t stop you from doing that! There’s no problem with that. Would you li—“

Friend: “Well, fine. Thanks a lot.” *dripping with anger* “Let’s go get a card somewhere else.”

(The two turn to leave my register.)

Me: “I’m sorry I couldn’t help you today, sir.”

Customer: “It’s okay; you’re just doing your job.”

Friend: *muttering under his breath about, “Is this really necessary?” and, “He’s obviously not seventeen,” and whatnot*

(After they leave, the store is mostly clear for the first time in hours. I turn to the seasonal kid, who’s been watching with big eyes, as my manager helps the other customer who witnessed it all.)

Me: “If they say they’re good buddies with the store manager in a staff of five but don’t mention his name… they don’t actually know the store manager.”

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