La la la la la bamba

Monday night, just before 11 p.m. and I'm desperate to go home. It has been a horrible night, punctuated by an argument over dead fish, complete with $100 of smelly scales shoved in my face. Yes, Wal-Mart will give you your money back on the fish. No, we will not replace YOUR fish in YOUR aquarium because you bought Wal-Mart fish and YOUR fish died. **sigh** Get a lawyer. Sue. Whatever.

Anyway. I'm trying to count down my change drawer. I look up and this guy from Instock is pointing and jabbering in Spanish. "Un momento," I say and look around for the closest person to really understand what he's trying to get across to me.

I can understand simple concepts and basic things in Spanish, and I can count back change, but I sure can't follow him, and he was animated and obviously overwrought. One of the cashiers comes over. She listens and then goes "A BOMB!"

OH MY JESUS. I'm like. "What is he talking about?" She ask him. He says there's a suitcase that's been over in the aisle by the shampoo for two hours and no one has picked it up. He says is has wires coming out of it. OH MY JESUS.

OKAY. Let's not panic her. I tell the girl to tell him to take me there so I can see this alleged "bomb."

Three guesses as to what it was. ... a pet carrier from the next aisle over in Pets. The "wires" were the carrying straps. Someone had taken it out of the packaging and then just shoved the plastic down next to it. If he'd had half a brain, he could have looked in the end and seen right through it, because it was mesh so the dog/cat could breathe.

Now, I'm all for taking down the capitalist regime, but would you really blow up the shampoo aisle? Why not start with electronics or something? Or hit the pharmacy. I don't think blasting Pert Plus all over the place is going to make much of a statement!

I tell him "por los perros y gatos" and smile. He goes off back to work. I count my money and leave. I think I'm going crazy.

Saturday slam

It was just one of those days where everything seemed to constantly teeter at the edge of the precipice all day. And I was wearing roller skates.

We promoted someone, so I'm trying to train while running this circus. Then all hell breaks loose on Register 14. Some people are trying to scam a $150 baby stroller for $64 dollars. No dice. The $64 one is the ONE NEXT TO IT ON THE SHELF. If you read the 3x4 inch display signs, you'd know.

They refuse to believe me when I come back to tell them, and demand I show them. I do. Then, because I've now been away from the front for 15 minutes with these horribly obnoxious people, and there are ZERO sales associates, the pages start coming.

"CSM to electronics." "CSM to register 10." "CSM to Connection Center." "CSM please dial 326." And my palm pilot threatens to burn out. OH MY JESUS.

This whole time I'm thinking. THERE IS SOMEONE ELSE UP THERE. DO BLOODY SOMETHING.

I finally find someone to explain the difference in strollers to this man, apologize and tell him I really have to go. I get back and it is like I can see tower of Jenga sticks starting to fall. **sigh**

That was my Saturday. It was all downhill from there.

PS: Who tries to return lemon juice? And then refuses to give a driver's license and claims not to know their own social security number? One whacked out lady, that's who!

Bullets over Broadway

Yes, we're now taking back bullets.

If you've ever purchased bullets or ammunition (why God why) at a Wal-Mart, it says RIGHT ON THE BOTTOM OF THE RECEIPT when purchasing ammunition that:

*******************************
ALL AMMUNITION SALES ARE FINAL

*******************************

Not today.

This woman came in. Claimed to have bought "the wrong kind of bullets." Would that be the kind that don't kill and maim people?

She wanted to exchange $15 bullets for $4 bullets. I saw this scam right off. I made her exchange them and gave the balance back on a shopping card. I had a manager tell me right to my face. "Oh, just let her do it."

We don't care about anything at our store. We've had Gloria Vanderbilt jeans returned at the Service Desk and show up at the fitting room. Wal-Mart DOES NOT CARRY GLORA VANDERBILT CLOTHES.

Need money, bring it back to Wal-Mart and argue a lot.

I forgot about Sunday. These people were letting the kid push the cart and he dropped a $25 cake. Now, there's nothing wrong with the cake except the parents weren't watching the kid. And the kid is stupid and should be slapped. And the woman goes. "I want a new cake. Right now. And we'd like someone to clean up this mess."

I'd like a million dollars and a shotgun, but that isn't likely to happen.

Allegedly, three days off

I was SUPPOSED to be away from RetailHell Thursay-Saturday. I didn't plan on doing anything. I just wanted to sleep all day, get up, go to my other job, sit at a computer for six hours, go home and sleep some more.

The best laid plans of mice and men ...

I had just gone downtown to get lunch Thursday afternoon when my phone rang. I ignored it, like I always do. I don't care who's calling. If it is important, they'll leave a message. I screen ALL my calls, even my parents.

Guess who it was. Yep. There was no one to give the 2-11 person their lunch. Could I please come in, just for a few hours? Eternally grateful, blah, blah, blah ...

I listened to the message, deleted it, got my sandwich and SBUX (still no Barrio Boy) and went home to think. And there were two message on my home machine. Only these were: "Could you come in and stay till 8 p.m. Thanks." The condescending tone nearly made me snap.

Now they know I have another job, that I really can't screw around at Wal-Mart until 8 p.m. and it IS MY FREAKING DAY OFF AND THERE ARE FIVE MANAGERS IN THE FRELLING PLACE WHO COULD GET OFF THEIR DUFF AND GIVE A HALF-HOUR LUNCH!

I call and speak with the girl who needs a lunch. She tells me not to come in. I'm like "Look, they screwed me on Tuesday, and they'll turn you over a barrel tonight. I'll come in for two hours, give you a lunch and help get the night crew in and the day crew out." I remind her that she owes me a solid at some point in the future.

I go in. I get insincere thanks from two management tools. I run the place capably for a couple hours and get her a good 45 minutes ahead of schedule. When she gets back from lunch, I cut and run.

Friday and Saturday, I spent avoiding the phone. If anyone called, I planned to be out of town. I slept and got myself back together. I know Sunday is going to be hellish, what with all the "I NEED A FATHER'S DAY GIFT EVEN THOUGH I DON'T CARE ENOUGHT TO SHOP EARLY FOR DAD" hype and the usual weekend madness.

If I didn't need the extra money so badly, I'd quit and reclaim my life, but I've gotten addicted to the cash and not having to scrounge for pennies at the end of every month. I just keep wondering if I'm selling my soul ...

Running in circles

I was so tired Tuesday morning that I put my shirt on inside out and went to work that way. It was that way for three hours before anyone noticed.

I worked Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday (all by myself for 7 hours w/no break or lunch) and Wednesday (again, all by myself). Here are the highlights.

Lady storms up to the service desk. Claims the bakery didn't have her cake ready on time. Let's loose a stream of profanity that would make sailors blush. Why you schedule a pickup a half-hour before the party is beyond me, but anyway, there's a FLY buzzing around under the plastic top on the cake. I tell her to pick out another cake and she'll get it for free. And trust the service desk wench to try to charge her for the second cake ...

The associated in Fabric & Craft tells a customer "How much fabric do you have, because she's going home and I'm going to lunch." While the woman is browsing for fabric, they leave. There was a sign propped up on the fabric table "BE BACK BY 8:15" More profanity. I end up cutting ribbons, cloth and patterns for half an hour.

"The top to this patio table doesn't fit. Can we get a new one." Said patio set in question costs $348.

One man brings two display models of coffee pots up to the service desk and wants to know how much they cost, and then if we can "knock off a few dollars" because they're they display models.

Woman walks in off the street, says she has an interview. She doesn't. Then demands I call the other Wal-marts in town to see if her interview is there. "I'm not feeling well in this heat." We get that all the time. They think an "interview" is a magic word for job. Umm, no.

Man tried to leave with a HUGE buggy full of stuff. Everything was in threes. Three lamps, three shades, three things of fish tank cleaner, three chlorine drops, nine apples, nine oranges, three sets of felt pads for chairs. It was the strangest thing. One pair of handcuffs though.

Light bulb blew out on register 15. Took and act of God and Congress to get a maintenance man with a ladder to change it.

And finally, baby puke was the word d'jour this week. I don't know what it was, but there were puking babies all OVER THE F****** PLACE. Pharmacy. Self-check. Grocery. Register 18. Jewelry. Baby puke is so nasty.

Wal-Mart - we rent bras

I hate when people yell at me. That just automatically makes me want to deny you whatever you came in for.

Today, a woman came in with four bras. All used. One had stains on it. "That was there when I bought it!" was her claim. All of them had dryer lint and fuzz all over them. Until today, we did not take back lingerie, swimsuits, opened packages of anything that is worn next to the body, etc.

She did not even have a receipt. This woman (a 46DD) needed $45 cash for something (crack probably, or else a Blue Bunny ice cream infusion) and thought Wal-Mart would roll over and toss up two twenties and a fiver. OH HELL NO!

I wouldn't authorize the return. She argued. "Ma'am, there are no tags on this merchandise. These items have obviously been worn. If you just tried them on, why did you take the tags off?"

She argues. "It was a flimsy tag." "I threw the tags out." "I can't find the receipt." (to the snot-nosed brat beside her) "Go get the receipt out of the glove box - this is why I keep all my receipts."

Ummm. OK, if you were returning these bras, WHY DIDN'T YOU BRING THE F****** RECEIPT IN WITH YOU? I just know the B**** has a BUSH-CHENEY '04 bumper sticker on her truck.

She finally got mad and left. She hunted down a manager, who let her have store credit. She lied and said I was rude to her. He blew her off. She came back to the service desk while I was getting a change order and made a production about how flimsy the tags were on the bras, and again how I was rude to her. She got store credit.

And now we're giving people money back for already-been-used swimsuits, lingerie, socks, undergarments and anything else they care to wear and return. Don't go nothing to wear? Go to your friendly neighborhood Wal-Mart. IT IS A F****** RENTAL SERVICE FOR CLOTHES!

The Layaway Life

For an "overstaffed" store, we sure have some trouble covering critical posts. THREE TIMES in the past three days (Sunday, Monday and Tuesday) I had to go back to Layaway to either cover a lunch, or in the case of Sunday night, actually work the Layaway desk.

OH MY GOD. Now I love layaway. There's a system and order and a linear way of doing things. It's not at all like the service desk, where you just sort of make it up as you go along to keep the idiot customers happy. Layaway has RULES!!!!!!

The 9-6 person left without telling us no one came into replace him. So at 6:30 p.m. we get the page "Customer assistance to Layaway." I go with a bag (i.e. money). Four customers were lined up waiting for me. One at the counter, two on the bench and another just pulling in with the cart.

And these were huge multi-item layaways. I had stuff coming out of my ears. I had two layaways on the side counter, another one spread out over half the back counter, a huge TV on the other half, some stuff stacked up on the TV, and then two Hispanic men rolled up with two tires that they wanted to put on layaway.

Tires. I near 'bout fell out. Of all things, two tires. They're still sitting under the counter where I rolled them with the bin labels on them.

The prize of the night was this skeevy woman who was getting a whole bunch of party stuff for her kid's birthday bash in August. She had multiple sets of Strawberry Shortcake stuff, but never the same multiple of anything, like plates, tablecloths, cups, streamers, etc.

She put it all on the counter. I opened her account and started scanning it. Then she started moving stuff around. The customers tend to do that when they're trying to scam you. They think you'll "forget" something or get confused.

So I would scan and the move the items to the back counter. Scan and move. Scan and move. She did almost get me though. She had eight packages of cups, but had set them out stacked together so it looked like four packages, with two racks on top of each other. I had seen her really skeezy brother stacking the cups, but it didn't cross my mind at the time.

It was just luck that I started putting all her stuff in the box right after she walked off and two packages of cups fell apart. I paged her right back to layaway and acted like I'd made the mistake. "Ma'am, I just don't want you to have any problems with your layaway when you pick it up." She paid me $.67 in nickels and pennies and flounced off.

That themed party supply stuff is expensive. She tried to scam four sets of cups off the store. That was almost eight dollars. That may not sound like a lot, but eight dollars here, eight dollars there, and pretty soon you're talking real money. And you'll never convince me she didn't know what she was doing, because she counted every other thing with me to make damned sure I didn't charge her for an extra plate or decoration. Some people ....

Saturday by the numbers

Number of "lost mommies" today: 3
Number of "lost mommies" who cared their child was gone: 0

Number of electric carts in a Wal-Mart SuperCenter: 8
Number of old people angry we don't have enough electric carts: at least 15
Number of old people in the county: zillions

How many co-managers and assistant managers on duty: 6
How many managers came to our assistance: 0

How many cart pushers on the schedule: 6
How many cart pushers showed up to work: 0

Times I asked the Cash Office for change: 1
Times the Cash Office gave me the WRONG change: 1

Number of customers who had purses stolen: 1
Number of sheriff's deputies in the store as a result: 1

Number of pregnant cashiers AT work: 4
Number of previously pregnant cashiers OUT of work at the moment: 2 (i.e. they JUST had the baby)
Number of previously pregnant cashiers BACK at work: 3

Number of door greeters we had today: 10 (a new record)
Number of door greeters whose native language is English: 3
Number of door greeters proficient in English: 1

Number of registers in total: 48
Number of registers with funky cash drawers: 5
Number of registers missing guns: 3
Number of registers that just don't work at all: 4

Number of service desk staff: 5
Number of service desk staff at five p.m: 1
Number of service desk staff on break: 4
Times I had to make a very angry page: 2
Minutes it took service desk staff to return: approx. 90 seconds.

Time I had to run the entire floor by myself from 10-6: 2 hours, 36 min.

That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

WIC, whack, whomp

There is always some WIC (Women, Infants, and Children (WIC) Program) drama going on up at the registers. WIC is a federal program that allows certain (usually low-income) people to get certain types of basic staples by using a WIC voucher/check.

WIC checks have more rules than a condo association. Only certain types of foods are allowed, and ZERO substitutions. You can't sub eggs for milk, or get any more than what the check allows you.

So today, this evil woman tries to bully a cashier into letting her get tuna fish for eggs. This is a short version of the conversation. In reality, it went on for about 10 minutes, with a lot of screaming on her part, and a lot of repeated: NO MA'AMs on my part.

HER: "PROTEINS IS PROTEINS!" she hollers at me.
ME: "I'm sorry ma'am. We can only allow you to take the items that are on the front of your WIC check."
HER: "Nobody never told me that before." "It say on the back that I can get tuna fish."
ME: "Ma'am, the list on the back is just a list of the foods that are available under WIC. The only things you can get are the ones on the FRONT of the check."
HER: "I want tuna fish and peanut butter. I don't want eggs. Protein is protein. Why can't I gets me some peanut butter?
ME: "Ma'am, you need to speak with the WIC office if you want to change the items on your WIC check. But we can't allow you take the peanut butter on WIC. Would you like to pay for it with the rest of your groceries?"
HER: "No, because it says I can gets it on WIC."
HER: "They's always do it for me before. I wants a manager. I don't like this."

My manager takes one look at her. Tells her "NO." And walks off. She shuts up and goes.

And after she's gone, the cashier comes up to the podium with a whole buggy (about 15 items, mostly all WIC-approved, that she had tried to get on this on WIC check. In addition to what she was entitled to, she had tried to cheat us for: 2 gallons of milk, two jars of peanut butter, 3 packages of individually wrapped cheese (NOT WIC) four packages of beans, two bottles of juice, five boxes of cereal, a can of grits and a dozen eggs.

They know that that is not their money, so whatever extra food they can get off the government's dime, they'll try to take every penny. It is amazing the deceit in some people.

Um, you're not Paris Hilton!

ME: Ma'am, could you take your dog outside?
HER: Really nasty look in my direction.
HER: Starts slovenly walking with her wanna-be-upscale white-trash friend back into the clothing again. IN THE OPPOSITE DIRECTION OF THE DOOR!
ME: Ma'am, could you please take your animal outside?
HER: I bet if I was Paris Hilton you wouldn't say that to me!
ME: Ma'am, it is a health and safety issue, we do sell food here. Could I please have you remove your animal?
HER: Another really nasty look, then a "hrrumph" sound, a hair flip, a hairpin turn on her flip-flips and she slouches toward the door.
ME: I have to follow the heifer, because you just know she'll try to sneak back in. She does. She sneaks a peek to see if I'm watching. I am. Stupid cow.

And I ask the door greeter: "Did you see that dog?" The door greeter goes: "Yes, but it was in her handbag." AAAAAARRRRGHHHHHHHH!