She Prefers A Male For Her Mail

(I have worked at another location for many years, but am on my first day at this particular location, a notoriously rich part of town. It is Christmas and we are loaded down with customers. The other workers are taking addresses and boxing things up. I am helping other customers but not using the machines to process orders. An older and very well-dressed lady comes in and stands at the end of the counter. I go and ask:)

Me: “Good afternoon; can I help you with something?”

(She looks down her nose at me, literally, and says:)

Lady: “Who are you?”

Me: “I am helping these guys for Christmas. As you can see, they are very busy; is there something I can help you with?”

Lady: “Where are you from?”

Me: “From [Another Part of the City]. I worked down there at the sister store to this. Is there something you need?”

Lady: “I prefer the gentlemen to help me.”

(There are probably six people in each line and the “gentlemen” are swamped. There are packages to be wrapped, and boxes and packing labels everywhere.)

Me: “They are so busy they won’t be able to get to you for quite a few minutes; are you sure I can’t do anything for you?”

Lady: “I prefer the gentlemen to help me.”

(All this happens while I am going back and forth moving boxes, and the mail carriers have just come in for the PO boxes we have. There’s a ton, plus more boxes to go into the mail room. The woman is in the way; there is only so much room here. She is obviously irritated at being asked, by the not so refined USPS guy, to “Move it, lady.” She forces her way down the counter and is in the way of just about every person in the shop.)

Lady: “Ahem!”

(No one notices her. I come back around again, now going to do the mail, putting it in all the PO boxes, and putting in notices if they have packages to be picked up.)

Me: “Ma’am, are you SURE I can’t do anything for you?”

Lady: “I prefer the GENTLEMEN to help me.”

Me: “Okay.”

(I do finally get a chance to tell the guys that she is waiting for them, which at this point they are acutely aware, but she’s always a bit nasty so they let her wait a bit more. The store quiets down at last and I am still in the mail room.)

Lady: *to the gentlemen* “Well, FINALLY! I know you were busy but you saw me here minutes ago and you should’ve asked me what I wanted!”

Guy: “I’m so sorry, but these Christmas rushes, you get into a groove and you can’t stop. [My Name] could’ve helped you; she’s from the other store.”

Lady: “I prefer you gentlemen helping me.”

Guy: “Yes, ma’am, what can I do for you today?”

Lady: “Please check my mail.”

(We all look at each other.)

Me: *in the mail room about eight feet away* “*snort*”

Guy: “Hey, [My Name], Does Mrs. [Lady] have any mail?”

Me: “No!”

Guy: “There ya go”

Lady: “Well, I never!” *she turns and glares at me and stomps out*

Us: “Oh, my god! What a horrid woman!”

(She came back in almost daily, of course, to check her mail and do little business. I never waited on her or even acknowledged her presence again. But she did bring in a tin of cookies, for “Everyone.”)