I should be able to pile up all sorts of strange crap on the checkout counter and have you ring it up for me without making a smartass comment, you self-important register-monkey. It’s a simple job, really.
It consists of dragging my items across a little scanner and listening for beeps. Sometimes, you punch in a few numbers that mean “bananas” or “Vidalia onions”, while you let the items sit on the scale for a second. When the items are all gone and you don’t hear beeping anymore, you tell me how much money to give you. Hell, you don’t even have to put anything in bags - you have a sidekick for that. But whatever else you do, nowhere in your job description does it say you should be advising customers on their food and beverage choices. You’re not a nutritional advisor.
For your information, the beer and soda and chips and ice cream were for a party. Not that it’s your business. But rolling your eyes at me and saying that I “could have bought something of nutritional value” is bloody well uncalled for. I hope the next time you’re at the pharmacy, you have to purchase a strange mix of Monistat, condoms, lice shampoo, and adult diapers. And I hope the clerk is of the same breed of nosy jackass as yourself. And that you need a price check. A loud one. With your ex, your boss, and your boyfriend’s mother in line behind you.
But you know, this woman just wasn’t worth the effort of going to bitch to the manager. I was in a hurry, and I just left. And since I never saw her again, I figured that cosmic justice had somehow taken care of everything for me.
Until this weekend, when I learned that the night management, at least, is just as evil as some of the employees.
I was with my mother, and we’d just had a whole bunch of groceries passed through the beeper, when Mom remembered that she needed cigarettes. The cashier had to call the manager over, because after 7pm the cigarettes are kept locked up. As the smarmy little man brought her cigarettes over, he waved them at my mom and said “You know, these will kill you.” Ok, that’s annoying, but we’ve heard that lots before and it’s fairly easy to respond with a cold stare and just move on. But you see, Mom’s quitting this week. She’s decided this is it, she’s tired of answering to nicotine, and she’s very proud of herself for coming to the decision.
Mom: Oh, I know they’re bad, and I’m quitting this week.
Manager: Sure you are (winks).
Mom: No, really – that’s why I’m buying two packs instead of a carton. I’m stopping Monday. (Big proud smile)
Manager. They all say that. You’ll be back for the carton. Trust me.
At that point Mom got quiet and upset. She’s tried to quit twice before. It’s hard, dammit. I could have hit the fucker. Of course, there was nobody higher up to whom I could complain, so instead I asked for his name, and the store owner’s name, and wrote both down in front of him, while he was explaining his comments as a “joke”. Joke my ass. The owner, and the head of the company, are getting a letter this week. I am beyond pissed.
Why the hell do people think they have the right to make fun of their customers? Do they not realize that we might be insulted by their “jokes”? Needless to say, I won’t be shopping there anymore. They don’t care, of course, but I’ll feel better knowing that I can pass through the checkout line without worrying what the jerk-of-the-day will have to say about my groceries.
