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I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 42

, , , , | Right | October 19, 2021

I’m dressed in a decent suit and shirt, and my ID has my company logo clearly displayed. I look nothing like the staff who wear polo shirts. I’m looking at a shelf, trying to choose between two products. I’m running on very little sleep — our baby isn’t sleeping and I’m still working long shifts — when I hear a shrill noise.

Customer: “Excuse me!”

It’s a shrill bark; clearly, she is annoyed. I don’t feel like engaging, so without looking up, I move closer to the shelf to let her through.

Customer: “Excuse me!” *Huffs* “Can I get some service, please?!

She spits the word “please” full of sarcasm and bile.

Me: “What?”

Customer: “Where are the rain protectors? And don’t ‘what’ me. You people are all the same: lazy and ignorant. I want service now!

Me: “I’ll ‘what’ whoever the h*** I like. And I don’t know where the rain covers are. Ask someone who actually works here.”

Customer: “Well, how was I supposed to know you didn’t work here? Idiot.”

Me: “I don’t know, a brain? Some sort of basic comprehension skills? I clearly don’t work here, which is just as well because they couldn’t tell you to f*** off!”

Customer: “Well, I never! How rude! I’m going to get you fired for this!”

Me: “I still don’t work here. Didn’t get hired in the last twenty seconds.”

She manages to find a manager; he explains over and over again that he could kick me out but she would have to leave, too. This seems to make her more and more agitated.

Me: “Actually, I was about to pay for this and leave anyway.”

Manager: “Thank you. And you, miss?”

Customer: “What?”

Manager: “Are you buying anything today?”

Customer: “Well, no.”

Manager: “Then can you please leave the store?”

Customer: “You’re kicking me out?! I will call the head office; I will call the paper!”

I paid and left but hung around long enough to hopefully see the police called. Unfortunately, the store security led her out screaming, shouting, and swearing the whole way.

I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 41
I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 40
I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 39
I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 38
I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 37

Why Checkout Counters Need Signal Blockers

, , , , , | Right | October 19, 2021

A customer comes up to my register while talking on her phone. As I’m ringing up her purchases, she says:

Customer: “I asked you a question!”

Me: “You are talking on your phone. How am I supposed to know that?”

She didn’t end the call; she just huffed at me. I finished her transaction and she went on her way, still on the phone.

The Biggest Stink Is Coming From Someone Else

, , , , | Right | October 19, 2021

I’m a manager at my furniture store, and it’s nearing the holiday season. We’re running a promotion, which is keeping the store hopping. A middle-aged woman approaches me and wants to know why the ladies’ room smells so bad.

I go check it out, fearing the worst as only a retail person can. I don’t smell anything outside the door, so there is nothing concerning at first blush.

I walk in, and I notice by the tennis shoes that someone is in a stall. From the sound and smell of things, that person is working on a number two. Since I hear the appropriate sounds of someone taking a dump in the actual toilet and not an existential horror of an “art” project, I have no objections.

I leave quietly, and the middle-aged woman is practically right in my face before I can take three steps. 

Customer: “Well? Why does it smell so bad?”

Me: “Someone is in the stall using the toilet and most likely that is the source of the odor.”

Customer: “You should do something about that!”

Me: “We cannot control people’s bodily functions. If you are able, just wait a few minutes after the person is done and let our fans do the work. Then it won’t smell so bad.”

Customer: “Oh! I don’t have to go to the bathroom. I just wanted to know what the smell was!”

Me: *Thoroughly disgusted* “Let me get this straight; you just go around smelling bathrooms that you don’t even need to go into?”

Customer: “Well, you’re an employee! I would expect you to take care of problems!”

Me: *Now angry* “Ma’am, look how busy the store is. You could have figured it out for yourself if you had taken the time to pay attention for a single minute. Instead, you interrupted my job and apparently hoped that I would waste my time harassing someone who is behaving perfectly appropriately? Lady, is there something wrong with you?”

The woman turned red, turned around, and stormed out. And yes, a later check showed that there were no horrors to be found in the restroom.

A Jandal Vandal

, , , , , | Right | October 18, 2021

What Americans call “flip-flops,” we Australians call “thongs,” and New Zealanders call “jandals.” At the time of this story, I have never heard the word “jandal” before and have no idea what it means.

Customer: “Hi, do you sell jandals?”

Me: *Thinking I may have misheard* “I’m sorry, do we sell what?”

Customer: “Jandals.”

Me: “I’m really sorry, I have no idea what that is.”

Customer: *Getting angry* “Jandals! JAN-DALS! For your feet?”

I’m really confused, and now I’m getting nervous as she is raising her voice.

Me: “Um, are they like socks or something?”

Customer: “Ugh! I can’t believe you don’t know what jandals are! You know, like—” *slowly and loudly* “—FLIP. FLOPS!”

Me: “Oh! Flip-flops! As in thongs? Yes, we have those!”

I start to walk her over to the aisle, but she continues ranting.

Customer: “No, not thongs, jandals. Thongs go up your butt. Jandals go on your feet. Back in my country, they’re called jandals. If you said the word ‘thong’ to anyone, they would laugh at you!”

Me: “But… we’re not in your country. We’re in Australia.”

She glared at me but had no response and stormed off. I have no issue with people of different cultures having different names for items, but don’t tell me I’m wrong when you’re in my country.

One Card Exits You From The Matrix

, , , , | Right | October 18, 2021

For the fourth Saturday in a row, I am the only cashier on duty and I have a ridiculously long line. We are badly understaffed in the first place, and we had both a call-out and a no-call, no-show. I’m doing the best I can. 

A group of people comes to my register with three large items, so I expect it to be a fairly simple transaction. It is, until one of the men holds up two credit cards. One is red and one is blue.

Customer: “Pick one.”

Me: “What?”

Customer: “One is mine; one is hers.”

He nods to the woman who I presume is his wife.

Customer: “Pick the one I pay with.”

Me: “Sir… I literally don’t care.”

Customer: “Pick one!”

I glance at the line, hoping he’ll take a hint, but he’s insisting I select the card he uses. In the interest of getting him out of my life, I pick the red card.

Customer: “D***! That one’s mine!”

Play stupid games, win stupid prizes. Next Saturday, I’m considering calling in sick.