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Shouldn’t “Leave” This To Chance

, , , , , | Working | August 28, 2019

(I work the overnight shift at a grocery store as a custodian, as well as occasionally assisting in stocking the shelves, usually the dog food aisle. I have a coworker who has been consistently dumb for the better part of five months, but our manager has been reluctant to let him go, as we’re short-handed and an extra body — in spite of him being relatively inept — is still an extra body. One Monday night, which is a non-delivery night where we condition the shelves and put up in-store back stock, about four hours into the shift, I’m mopping a spill on the floor and the coworker walks by with his jacket and bag. Our manager is off tonight, and we have another coworker who is the de facto supervisor in our manager’s stead. There are a couple of other coworkers, but they are working elsewhere in the store when the following occurs.)

Me: “You heading out?”

Inept Coworker: “Yeah, I’m about to pass out. I have to get going.”

(I assume, perhaps naïvely, that [Inept Coworker] has informed [Supervisor] that he is leaving, so I say goodbye and get back to my own duties. About five minutes later, I decide to take my break, go outside to get a drink from the machine, and watch as [Inept Coworker] gets picked up. Once I get my drink, I head back inside and lock the front door behind me, thinking nothing of it. Twenty minutes later…)

Supervisor: “Hey, [My Name], have you seen [Inept Coworker]?”

Me: “Yeah, he left about twenty minutes ago.”

Supervisor: “Who locked the door?”

Me: “I did.”

Supervisor: *curses* “He told me he was just going out for a smoke and fresh air! I told him to finish his aisles before he left.”

(He shows me that the aisles are, in fact, not complete, as there are multiple holes where he could have added the backstock and filled them.)

Me: “Oh, s***, I saw him with his jacket and bag, and just kind of assumed—”

Supervisor: “Nah, don’t worry about it; it’s not your fault. There was probably just a miscommunication there. It happens.”

(I agree, and we get back to work, picking up [Inept Coworker]’s slack and getting everything finished, as he didn’t complete frozen foods or dairy, the sections to which he was assigned. We have a third coworker take pictures beforehand. Cut to Wednesday night — I am off Tuesday — and I’m on my first fifteen-minute break, two hours into the shift, when [Supervisor] calls out to me that the manager wants to speak to me. I walk with him to the back, where our manager is talking with a very angry and defensive [Inept Coworker], who is saying that he’d definitely told [Supervisor] that he was leaving, but the minor point of contention that I need to clear up is who had locked the door behind him.)

Me: “Yeah, I locked it; I’d gone outside to the vending machine—”

Inept Coworker: *interrupting me* “No, you didn’t! I already said so!”

(He doesn’t let me get a word in edgewise, ranting about how everyone’s “snitching” on him about his work, and what he says, and what he does and doesn’t do, etc.)

Inept Coworker: “It’s like all y’all are against me or something!”

(I am pissed, since he basically called me a liar to my face, and I’m burning to ask him how much time and energy he thinks we have that we are coordinating and committing to a plot just to piss him off, but I refrain, letting [Inept Coworker] get a head full of steam all by himself. [Manager] cuts in that I have been asked a question, and to let me speak. [Inept Coworker] fumes as I explain that I went outside just as his ride pulled up to get a drink from the vending machine, and he was already gone by the time I’d locked the door.)

Me: “…so I locked the door; you just didn’t see me do it.”

Manager: *speaking to [Inept Coworker]* “So, you told [Supervisor] that you were just going out for a smoke—”

Inept Coworker: “No, I told him I was leaving! I was already done with all my stuff!”

Manager: *turning to me and [Supervisor]* “Was he?”

Supervisor: “No, he wasn’t. [Coworker #3] has pictures—”

Inept Coworker: “I don’t care what he has! I did all of the frozen aisles and dairy!”

Manager: “So, what were you doing for four f****** hours?”

(I’m assuming at this point that they’ve already discussed everything up to my involvement before I arrived at the discussion, so I step back but am still present.)

Inept Coworker: “The aisles! I told you, I finished them!”

Manager: “[Supervisor] says you didn’t, and if they have proof–“

([Inept Coworker] starts deflating at this point, muttering to himself about snitches again, saying, “Whatever.”)

Manager: “If you’re gonna mumble, you might as well speak up; we’re all adults here.”

(And in his infinite wisdom, [Inept Coworker] says the magic words.)

Inept Coworker: *as though this is a threat* “I don’t have to be here, you know.”

([Supervisor] and I exchange looks as there’s a brief pause. [Manager], who is clearly completely done with [Inept Coworker]’s attitude, draws himself up and speaks very calmly and clearly.)

Manager: “You know, you’re absolutely right. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you where the door is.” 

(There was another pause, in which [Supervisor] and I turned around and walked away. Our now former coworker gathered his stuff and left, leaving us once again to pick up his slack. Later, [Manager], [Supervisor], and I were talking, and we all came to the conclusion that, had [Inept Coworker] simply admitted there was a miscommunication and apologized for leaving on Monday, the worst-case scenario is that he’d likely have just gotten a write-up, if not merely a reprimand.)

The Psychology Of Laziness

, , , , , | Learning | August 27, 2019

For a while, I was a psychology major in college. The major had some interesting electives, including “psychology of animal and human interaction.” I loved animals and thought psychology was interesting so it was a no-brainer to me.

Our final, worth a considerable portion of our grade, was a group research project. Groups of four to five students had to find participants and animals, and record how people talked to the animals. Each student had to have their own set of data so that the professor could still grade our individual contributions.

Enter Lazy Classmate, who, while seeming soft-spoken and nice, absolutely refused to participate meaningfully in this project worth a huge part of our grade. He was never confrontational, but he never delivered on anything promised and we had to write his portions of the paper for him, etc. Standard useless project member things. The real surprise was when we all reviewed the final paper and data.

The lazy classmate had apparently failed to collect his data set, as well, and it was incredibly obvious. He had taken my data and copy-pasted it completely. This was an upper-level, restricted elective. He couldn’t have been that stupid, right?

He was that stupid. The teacher noticed immediately and our feedback on his contributions to the project was the final nail in the coffin. The project was graded out of 100 total, and then divided for each student. So, a 100% for an individual student was a 20/20. Imagine my surprise when the lazy student didn’t show up on the final day, and the rest of the group had found we’d all been given 25/20. The teacher had not only reported the student, but had given us his points, as well, giving us all a big grade boost right before the semester’s end.

This Problem Is Next To Nothing

, , , , , , | Working | August 26, 2019

I’ve ordered a small fabric patch with the logo of my favourite band. The product ships from Germany — I live in Canada — and the only shipping option is expedited shipping through a well-known company. As such, my item should arrive in less than a week. 

I follow the tracking and my package gets from Germany to a centre in the US practically overnight and hangs there for several days with no updates. One evening, I see that it suddenly has a notice attached. No details are given, but there was some issue.

I call the local branch for the shipping company. They look into it and tell me the package arrived at their American facility empty. At this point I ask, was the parcel observed to be empty (i.e. through x-ray, if they even go through one) or was it simply weighed? The patch weighs next to nothing, after all.

They don’t give a straight answer, but chalk it up as a lost item and tell me to get in touch with the store. 

The store is very understanding and ships a new package at no additional cost. This one, thankfully, arrives. However, I am immediately concerned.

The box, which is hilariously large for what it contains — seriously, a small bubble mailer would have been more than sufficient — is only taped across a third of the openings at each end. Fearing the worst, I open it.

It looks empty! Crap. For whatever reason, I look closer and realize the patch is lodged under the flap at the other end, very close to falling out.

This band has several high-budget videos and an insanely involved live show, but their shop can’t spare an extra two cents of tape to ensure products aren’t lost? I’m glad it arrived the second time, and they handled it very well. It just could have been easily avoided.

In This Argument, It Is Best That You Fold

, , , , | Right | August 23, 2019

(We used to have a slightly older woman working in our clothing department who everyone loved. She quit after years of working there because she had been doing it just for something to do and she finally got sick of horrible customers and even worse managers. She comes in one day a couple of months later and browses through our clothing department. The new girl spends about twenty minutes fixing a stack of shirts while another female customer watches her. After the new girl finishes that stack and goes to the next table, the female customer grabs a handful of the bottom of the stack. She knows these are all the same shirt because she has watched the girl fold the entire stack. She pulls them all out, toppling the entire stack, and then looks at the shirts in her hand for just a second before tossing them back onto the now-destroyed stack of clothes. The ex-employee sees this and goes off on the customer, in full-on mom mode.)

Ex-Employee: “What the h*** is the matter with you?! You watched this poor girl fold every single one of those shirts for almost half an hour and just destroyed them in a second! You go fix that mess you made! NOW!”

(The ex-employee makes such a huge fuss about it that every other customer within sight is staring at the female customer, who is now red as a beet. She grabs the whole stack and sets the ones that are still folded up straight and refolds every one that she messed up. It takes about another fifteen minutes for her to fix what she demolished, and then the ex-employee goes right back to being as pleasant as she ever is.)

Ex-Employee: “There! Was that really worth giving her that trouble? Wouldn’t it have been so much easier to just not screw with her? Maybe next time you’ll think before you act!”

(And with that, our ex-employee patted the customer’s shoulder and walked away with a little more pep in her step. Later, before she left, our ex-employee told me she’d wanted to do that for years and since she couldn’t get in trouble now it felt “so good!” to finally get to tell off someone who did that.)

What A Douche!

, , , , | Right | August 23, 2019

(I am in high school, working as a cashier at a well-known superstore. One afternoon, we are a little slow and the front end manager decides to take me off my register and put me in the pharmacy section to face the shelves. I’ve made it around to the feminine hygiene section when a male customer who appears to be in his early thirties approaches me.)

Customer: “Do you know where this is?”

(He holds up a piece of paper up for me to read. Someone has sent him in for a douche product.)

Me: “Yes, sir. That’s on the shelf right behind you.”

(He turns to look at them and seems confused. He stares at the different types for a minute and then turns back toward me.)

Customer: “Which one do I get her?”

Me: “I really couldn’t tell you.”

(This is before everyone carries cell phones, so I can’t suggest he call her and find out.)

Customer: “You’re a girl. You should know about these things!”

Me: “I’ve never used it before, so I wouldn’t be able to tell you.”

Customer: “Just pick one for me.”

Me: “Does she want a scented one?”

Customer: “I don’t know. Just pick one.”

Me: “Okay. Here you go.”

(I reach down to grab the box labeled “original,” since he couldn’t answer the question about scented or unscented. I turn to hand it to him and he throws his hands up in the surrender position as if I’ve pointed a gun at him.)

Me: “This is what you’re looking for. You can take it to the register.”

(He’s still standing there with his hands up and begins shaking his head, refusing to grab the box of douche.)

Me: “Sir, I am not going to take this up to the register for you.”

(He continued to stare at the box for a few more seconds as if this box was going to physically harm him if he touched it. Finally, he gingerly took it by the corner between his thumb and forefinger, nearly dropping it. He carried it that way down the aisle and towards the front. I went back to facing the shelves, wondering at the immaturity of some men.)