I’m sorry. There have been *issues.* Posts have been eaten. Phones have been thrown across the room. People have been cursed. Supervisors have been requested. I'm sure that I'm on "customers_suck" on LiveJournal at this point. Comcast is the worst company in the free world when it comes to customer service. Also the worst when it comes to actually keeping their product, I don't know, WORKING! I hope every single one of their local, regional and corporate offices burn down and all their phone monkey slaves die with their idiotic, condescending and unhelpful tails tied to their chairs.
Anywhoo.
I’m slaving away, as per usual. It’s a Sunday. My feet hurt and I regret mightily eating that leftover Olive Garden takeout for my lunch because it is just causing *issues.*
Every 20 minutes I’m praying the customers leave me alone and screaming “Dequetta (my supervisor, name changed to protect the innocent, but she IS a ghettolicious superstar), can you watch Customer Service for a minute? I got to go.” That’s what kind of a day it is.
In the midst of all this fun comes one of my regulars, a hot-blooded twenty-something who seems to make a pastime out of buying and returning clothes. She’s the type of upscale consumer Wal-Mart would love to attract more of – but hates to try on clothes in the store. And she buys four sizes of everything and returns three of them.
Mizz Thing is working it today. I guess she visited the new bebe store in town. She’s rocking a pink and white bebe sport outfit today – sweatpants, tee and hoodie. Of course, the letters hit RIGHT where it would do the most good – right across the boobs and the buns. Not that this sister needs any more attention. She’s got just enough curves in all the right places.
What I do notice is that she’s rocking a new ‘do. She’s added some purple highlights to the black shag on either side of her face. Dramatic, but cute.
Today she’s returning a hair-dryer. We’re talking heavy-duty hair-dryer here. Leaves would tremble in terror at mere mention of this thing. Seriously. She slammed it up on the counter and at first I thought it was something from hardware until I looked at the receipt.
Cue the fun:
ME: “Can I help you? How are you doing today?” If I know you, I'm friendly. At least until you try to run game.
HER: “Good. I just need to return this hair dryer.”
ME: “OK. Do you have your receipt?” Almost always does. She knows the score.
HER: “It’s right here.”
ME: “OK.” Receipt is a month old.
ME: “Uh. Was there a problem with it?”
HER: “Oh. I didn’t use it. I bought it for my sister and she looked at it and said she didn’t want it because it was too big.”
ME: Looking at the box. It’s one of those clear plastic case things, and there is something bothering me.
HER: “So how have you been? It is so busy today.”
ME: Distractedly. “Fine.” Something about this box and the hairdryer is tickling my admittedly tiny brain.
HER: “That’s good. Is it always this busy on Sundays?”
ME: Still looking at the box. “Yeah. It was real busy earlier.” I finally figure out what is bothering me. Something is missing from the box. There's actually an empty space where something should be and that something isn't there.
HER: “I came in and didn’t see you earlier. I guess you were on your lunch or something.”
ME: “Um. Did this come with an attachment or something? Because it looks like there is supposed to be something here.”
HER: “Oh. It did. It had a diffuser attachment. I took that out because it fits on my other hair dryer. I decided to keep it and just bring the hair dryer back.”
ME: “Um. Um. I …” Houston, we have a problem.
HER: “I don’t want this hair dryer though. I just wanted the attachment. That’s all I bought it for.”
ME: “Yeah. I kind of need the attachment if I’m going to give you the money back for the whole hair dryer.”
HER: “But the whole hair dryer is there. Just not the attachment.”
ME: “Yeah. It’s kind of not. It comes with an attachment. And you still have the attachment.”
HER: “I want to keep the attachment.”
ME: “If you keep the attachment, you can keep the hair dryer.”
HER: “I don’t want the hair dryer.”
ME: “You can’t return it without the attachment.”
HER: “Why not?”
ME: “Because you bought it with the attachment – and you have to return it with the attachment.”
HER: “That’s not fair. I only want to keep the parts I want and return the rest.”
ME: “But they’re sold as a set.”
HER: “I think I should get to keep the attachment. I shop here all the time.”
ME: “No.”
HER: “That’s not fair.”
ME: “Well, you can’t get something for free.”
HER: “I don’t want something for free. I bought a hair dryer and I’m returning a hair dryer.”
ME: “But you’re keeping the attachment. You’re not returning everything you purchased.”
HER: “That’s what I said. I want to return the hair dryer.”
ME: “If you bring the attachment.”
HER: “But I want to keep the attachment.”
ME: “No. Hair dryer and attachment, I’ll return it. Otherwise, no return.”
HER: “That’s just not fair.”
ME: “Well, I’m sorry, but that’s how it’s going to be.”
Finally, she pouts some more and walks off. As she leaves, I notice she has bebe written in pink over her rump. It ought to be "baby."
Sheesh.
Showing posts with label random customers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label random customers. Show all posts
Thursday, November 08, 2007
Sunday, November 04, 2007
I lost my paycheck and my mind inside the House of Wal
“I lost my fifty-two thousand dollar paycheck and you’re gonna help me find it.”
Crazy people and Sunday mornings seem to go together like a horse and carriage – or like a straightjacket and a mental patient – or like bitchy comments and “in the style of” posts.
I drag in Sunday morning after a hard day’s night spent praying to Ralph on the big porcelain phone. Thank you, bad Chinese food. I will never eat crab rangoon at a strange Chinese buffet again – as long as I live. I’m sucking down the Gatorade and the water and feeling like my stomach is playing host to the Mexican Jumping Bean Olympics of 2020.
The absolute last thing I want to get is a briefing from the overnight supervisor about “this crazy man.”
OK. There’s a crazy man. Par for usual at the Wal-Mart. Here’s the story so far, from the overnight supervisor, who is Haitian, and English is her third language, and she had been dealing with the man for three hours and was completely fed up with him.
“This man, he crazy. He come in at 4 a.m. He say he lose a paycheck for $52,000 in the store. I tell him I not find it. I tell him to call de cops. He tell me he have to have it and to close de doors and not let anyone out. I tell him it not my fault he lose things.”
“He tell me he a doctor and this his check for just one week. I look at him and he look drunk, like he not right in the head. I tell him I look for de check, but I not find de check and he need to go where he was in the store and look for the check.”
She is basically in tears at this point, because apparently the man kept coming up to her every half-hour all night and asking “Did you find my check? Did you find my check? Did you find my check?”
All she could tell him was “No” and all the while she is thinking “It is not my fault you can’t keep up with a check allegedly for $52,000.”
So I ask her “Where did he go?” Here’s the kicker. HE’S STILL HERE. HE HAS BEEN HERE FOR THREE HOURS WANTING US TO PRODUCE THIS HUGE PAYCHECK.
The overnight girl goes home. About fifteen minutes later, I get my first look at what all the fuss is about. So help me Shiva it looks like something that escaped from an insane asylum.
A man in scrubs and dirty tennis shoes comes around the corner, followed by a woman in one of those wheelchair carts. He had bloodshot eyes that had seen the bottom of many a bottle of Jim Beam and was likely on a first-name basis with Captain Morgan, Jack Daniels and Johnnie Walker. He had an odor that came from no emergency room. It came from sleeping in the clothes you wore to bed again and again and again and again. I don’t even get time for a “How can I help you?” before he blurts out “DID YOU FIND MY CHECK YET?”
ME: “No sir. Why don’t you write your name down and we can call you if we do find it?”
HIM: “I don’t want to do that.”
ME: “Okay. Well, you can call or come back tomorrow.”
HIM: “I WANT MY MONEY. MY MOTHER NEEDS THIS STUFF.” What did Mommy Dearest having her cart? Some white bread, some skim milk and some strawberries.
ME: “OK. Like I said. You can write down your info, call, or come back.” Because I for one already think you’re crazy.
HIM: “I’m a doctor. That’s my paycheck for A WHOLE WEEK.” Seriously. $52,000. That’s a lot of scratch. And he really wanted me to know that it was his check for a WHOLE week.
ME: “OK.” Not giving him anything to work with.”
HIM: “I’m going to go walk around some more.” Because if walking around looking for this mythical check for three hours hasn’t turned it up, walking around some more will surely help.
And he rolls off.
At 7:45 a.m. he’s back. With Mommy Dearest in tow. She’s added a five-pound bag of potatoes to the mix – totally crushing the bread.
HIM: “DID YOU FIND MY CHECK YET?”
ME: “No.” Probably because this check only exists in your mind. Your fevered, deluded, drug-addled mind.
HIM: “Oh. Because I thought someone might have turned it in.”
ME: “Not yet.”
Off he goes again.
Repeat two more times until about 9 a.m.
At at the 8 o’clock check-in, Mommy Dearest has added a package of marshmallows and a jar of peanut butter. Oh, and I forgot to mention she’s wearing a gigantic floral muumuu the likes of which could keep any botanical garden in business for five years and which would make Alan Titchmarch and Charlie Dimmock blush with shame for the flowers that died in vain for that piece of fabric.
At the 8:30 a.m. check-in, there's a package of sliced cheese, a box of tampons and some adult diapers. LOVELY!
He also manages to bug the morning supervisor, the cashier on Register 14, the girl in Jewelry, the morning accounting associate and most of the morning sales associates. People keep coming up to Customer Service and asking “Is that man crazy?” Well, yes. But he’s not threatened anyone yet, so management won’t throw him out. Nor has he tried to steal. He’s just wandering around like a lunatic.
Around 9:15 a.m., I go out for my break and I see this man haranguing the girl at the self-checkouts down by Register 20. I’m thinking. “Geez man. You seriously need to give it up. And it would really help your cause if you didn’t look like a patient instead of a doctor!”
When I get back from my break – he’s back at Customer Service raising a racket with the girl who replaced me, telling this same old tired story for what has to be the 70th time since about 4 o’clock this morning. “I had a check, a paycheck for $52,000, it was everything I made for this week. I need to cash it.” The girl is looking at him like he’s crazy.
Which. You know, BECAUSE HE IS CRAZY!
He finally gives up and starts piling the stuff from Mommy Dearest’s wheelchair cart onto the counter. “Can you check us out? I guess I’ll just pay with my credit card.” You know, because you HAD TO CASH THAT CHECK!
Seriously. We sell scrubs at Wal-Mart. Anyone can claim to be a doctor. And if you seriously make $52,000 in one week, what the hell are you and your crippled mother doing shopping at the House of Wal?
Chalk another one up in the insane lunatic column at the House of Wal!
Crazy people and Sunday mornings seem to go together like a horse and carriage – or like a straightjacket and a mental patient – or like bitchy comments and “in the style of” posts.
I drag in Sunday morning after a hard day’s night spent praying to Ralph on the big porcelain phone. Thank you, bad Chinese food. I will never eat crab rangoon at a strange Chinese buffet again – as long as I live. I’m sucking down the Gatorade and the water and feeling like my stomach is playing host to the Mexican Jumping Bean Olympics of 2020.
The absolute last thing I want to get is a briefing from the overnight supervisor about “this crazy man.”
OK. There’s a crazy man. Par for usual at the Wal-Mart. Here’s the story so far, from the overnight supervisor, who is Haitian, and English is her third language, and she had been dealing with the man for three hours and was completely fed up with him.
“This man, he crazy. He come in at 4 a.m. He say he lose a paycheck for $52,000 in the store. I tell him I not find it. I tell him to call de cops. He tell me he have to have it and to close de doors and not let anyone out. I tell him it not my fault he lose things.”
“He tell me he a doctor and this his check for just one week. I look at him and he look drunk, like he not right in the head. I tell him I look for de check, but I not find de check and he need to go where he was in the store and look for the check.”
She is basically in tears at this point, because apparently the man kept coming up to her every half-hour all night and asking “Did you find my check? Did you find my check? Did you find my check?”
All she could tell him was “No” and all the while she is thinking “It is not my fault you can’t keep up with a check allegedly for $52,000.”
So I ask her “Where did he go?” Here’s the kicker. HE’S STILL HERE. HE HAS BEEN HERE FOR THREE HOURS WANTING US TO PRODUCE THIS HUGE PAYCHECK.
The overnight girl goes home. About fifteen minutes later, I get my first look at what all the fuss is about. So help me Shiva it looks like something that escaped from an insane asylum.
A man in scrubs and dirty tennis shoes comes around the corner, followed by a woman in one of those wheelchair carts. He had bloodshot eyes that had seen the bottom of many a bottle of Jim Beam and was likely on a first-name basis with Captain Morgan, Jack Daniels and Johnnie Walker. He had an odor that came from no emergency room. It came from sleeping in the clothes you wore to bed again and again and again and again. I don’t even get time for a “How can I help you?” before he blurts out “DID YOU FIND MY CHECK YET?”
ME: “No sir. Why don’t you write your name down and we can call you if we do find it?”
HIM: “I don’t want to do that.”
ME: “Okay. Well, you can call or come back tomorrow.”
HIM: “I WANT MY MONEY. MY MOTHER NEEDS THIS STUFF.” What did Mommy Dearest having her cart? Some white bread, some skim milk and some strawberries.
ME: “OK. Like I said. You can write down your info, call, or come back.” Because I for one already think you’re crazy.
HIM: “I’m a doctor. That’s my paycheck for A WHOLE WEEK.” Seriously. $52,000. That’s a lot of scratch. And he really wanted me to know that it was his check for a WHOLE week.
ME: “OK.” Not giving him anything to work with.”
HIM: “I’m going to go walk around some more.” Because if walking around looking for this mythical check for three hours hasn’t turned it up, walking around some more will surely help.
And he rolls off.
At 7:45 a.m. he’s back. With Mommy Dearest in tow. She’s added a five-pound bag of potatoes to the mix – totally crushing the bread.
HIM: “DID YOU FIND MY CHECK YET?”
ME: “No.” Probably because this check only exists in your mind. Your fevered, deluded, drug-addled mind.
HIM: “Oh. Because I thought someone might have turned it in.”
ME: “Not yet.”
Off he goes again.
Repeat two more times until about 9 a.m.
At at the 8 o’clock check-in, Mommy Dearest has added a package of marshmallows and a jar of peanut butter. Oh, and I forgot to mention she’s wearing a gigantic floral muumuu the likes of which could keep any botanical garden in business for five years and which would make Alan Titchmarch and Charlie Dimmock blush with shame for the flowers that died in vain for that piece of fabric.
At the 8:30 a.m. check-in, there's a package of sliced cheese, a box of tampons and some adult diapers. LOVELY!
He also manages to bug the morning supervisor, the cashier on Register 14, the girl in Jewelry, the morning accounting associate and most of the morning sales associates. People keep coming up to Customer Service and asking “Is that man crazy?” Well, yes. But he’s not threatened anyone yet, so management won’t throw him out. Nor has he tried to steal. He’s just wandering around like a lunatic.
Around 9:15 a.m., I go out for my break and I see this man haranguing the girl at the self-checkouts down by Register 20. I’m thinking. “Geez man. You seriously need to give it up. And it would really help your cause if you didn’t look like a patient instead of a doctor!”
When I get back from my break – he’s back at Customer Service raising a racket with the girl who replaced me, telling this same old tired story for what has to be the 70th time since about 4 o’clock this morning. “I had a check, a paycheck for $52,000, it was everything I made for this week. I need to cash it.” The girl is looking at him like he’s crazy.
Which. You know, BECAUSE HE IS CRAZY!
He finally gives up and starts piling the stuff from Mommy Dearest’s wheelchair cart onto the counter. “Can you check us out? I guess I’ll just pay with my credit card.” You know, because you HAD TO CASH THAT CHECK!
Seriously. We sell scrubs at Wal-Mart. Anyone can claim to be a doctor. And if you seriously make $52,000 in one week, what the hell are you and your crippled mother doing shopping at the House of Wal?
Chalk another one up in the insane lunatic column at the House of Wal!
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Cheetah Cheeto Momma and the computer that wouldn't turn on
We're changing things up today. The raw material for today's story of unacceptable customer stupidity, fashion tragedies, howler monkey mayhem and Wal-Martian managerial prowess comes from a reader and fellow Wal-Mart associate - Blue-Vested Canary - who sends dispatches from the frozen northlands of Canada. Many thanks.
As originally told to bbcamerican by Blue-Vested Canary. All flights of fancy, literary inventions and mistakes herein and forthwith are mine.
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My job thrills me. Seriously. Like how taking plunging your hand into a vat of boiling oil is “thrilling.” Me? I’d rather shove bamboo skewers laced with the toxins of a thousand blowfish under my fingernails than deal with the morons that waddle through the doors of the Wal-Mart.
My jobs today included running a regular register, trying to stop the rampant theft at the self-checkouts and covering breaks at the Service Desk – which is where all the fun began.
L’il Miss Fashion Tragedy Wal-Mart Barbie rolls up wearing a giraffe-print shirt paired with a cheetah print blazer. That’s too much print for a newspaper. Let alone the African savannah! Whole herds of bushmen would run in horror.
She’s got the Wal-Mart howler monkey special shopping cart – built with two child seats behind the buggy – and her version comes complete with two clinging howler monkeys. Now available at walmart.com and Wal-Mart stores nationwide!
Cheetah Cheeto Momma has a computer she wants to return, allegedly because it won’t turn on. Probably because your bratty monsters spilled a cup of juice, some cereal and a gallon of aquarium water on it.
She clunks the computer up on the desk and I ask for a receipt.
Cheetah Cheeto Momma looks right at me and bluntly says “I ain’t got none of my receipts for here.”
I look back, trying mightily not to make a comment on her furry fashion faux pas, and inform her that we’re not taking the computer back without a receipt.
She growls with a scream worthy of any predator. Maybe that’s how she landed a babydaddy? There’s a grunting vocalization of some sort and then “What kind of f****** place don’t take returns?” My guess? Any place yousteal shop at on a regular basis.
Anywho. I ask if maybe she’s got the receipt at home or in the car or secreted in a hidden pocket on her handbag. (Thank God the handbag wasn’t in a zebra print or twenty-seven outraged Luo tribesmen would have jumped out and speared her to death right then and there.)
She said she'd go check. And she left.
WITHOUT HER FREAKING HOWLER MONKEYS.
This insane Cheetah Cheeto Momma just walked away from Customer Service for four minutes (which felt like forever) and left her children running around inside the House of Wal.
I should have called the police.
When she gets back, she’s waving a piece of paper that – MY STARS – resembles a receipt.
Turns out the receipts is from last December. Eleven months ago. This woman’s computer pre-dates the Britney Spears meltdown, resurrection and post-resurrection VMA meltdown.
I calmly explain (while trying not to be distracted by the cheetah spots) that Wal-Mart will not be taking the computer back. It was after the 15-day return period (well after) and the manufacturer would be able to assist her on repairing her machine.
That, of course, was unacceptable to Cheetah Cheeto Momma. She wants a manager (and some fashion sense).
Management orders me to take it back. Before I do, I open the box, inspect the computer and decide to plug it in – because she said it wouldn’t even turn on.
Whir lights powers on Lord love a duck, it powered on. Windows XP opened up and right there, on her desktop, staring back at me with their grubby little faces, were her two little demon spawn.
The terror in her eyes was magnificent.
I packed it back up and sent her on her way.
Thank you for our attempted scamming at the House of Wal. K thx bai.
As originally told to bbcamerican by Blue-Vested Canary. All flights of fancy, literary inventions and mistakes herein and forthwith are mine.
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My job thrills me. Seriously. Like how taking plunging your hand into a vat of boiling oil is “thrilling.” Me? I’d rather shove bamboo skewers laced with the toxins of a thousand blowfish under my fingernails than deal with the morons that waddle through the doors of the Wal-Mart.
My jobs today included running a regular register, trying to stop the rampant theft at the self-checkouts and covering breaks at the Service Desk – which is where all the fun began.
L’il Miss Fashion Tragedy Wal-Mart Barbie rolls up wearing a giraffe-print shirt paired with a cheetah print blazer. That’s too much print for a newspaper. Let alone the African savannah! Whole herds of bushmen would run in horror.
She’s got the Wal-Mart howler monkey special shopping cart – built with two child seats behind the buggy – and her version comes complete with two clinging howler monkeys. Now available at walmart.com and Wal-Mart stores nationwide!
Cheetah Cheeto Momma has a computer she wants to return, allegedly because it won’t turn on. Probably because your bratty monsters spilled a cup of juice, some cereal and a gallon of aquarium water on it.
She clunks the computer up on the desk and I ask for a receipt.
Cheetah Cheeto Momma looks right at me and bluntly says “I ain’t got none of my receipts for here.”
I look back, trying mightily not to make a comment on her furry fashion faux pas, and inform her that we’re not taking the computer back without a receipt.
She growls with a scream worthy of any predator. Maybe that’s how she landed a babydaddy? There’s a grunting vocalization of some sort and then “What kind of f****** place don’t take returns?” My guess? Any place you
Anywho. I ask if maybe she’s got the receipt at home or in the car or secreted in a hidden pocket on her handbag. (Thank God the handbag wasn’t in a zebra print or twenty-seven outraged Luo tribesmen would have jumped out and speared her to death right then and there.)
She said she'd go check. And she left.
WITHOUT HER FREAKING HOWLER MONKEYS.
This insane Cheetah Cheeto Momma just walked away from Customer Service for four minutes (which felt like forever) and left her children running around inside the House of Wal.
I should have called the police.
When she gets back, she’s waving a piece of paper that – MY STARS – resembles a receipt.
Turns out the receipts is from last December. Eleven months ago. This woman’s computer pre-dates the Britney Spears meltdown, resurrection and post-resurrection VMA meltdown.
I calmly explain (while trying not to be distracted by the cheetah spots) that Wal-Mart will not be taking the computer back. It was after the 15-day return period (well after) and the manufacturer would be able to assist her on repairing her machine.
That, of course, was unacceptable to Cheetah Cheeto Momma. She wants a manager (and some fashion sense).
Management orders me to take it back. Before I do, I open the box, inspect the computer and decide to plug it in – because she said it wouldn’t even turn on.
Whir lights powers on Lord love a duck, it powered on. Windows XP opened up and right there, on her desktop, staring back at me with their grubby little faces, were her two little demon spawn.
The terror in her eyes was magnificent.
I packed it back up and sent her on her way.
Thank you for our attempted scamming at the House of Wal. K thx bai.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
This man, he returned a lot of shirts
Generally, I'm pretty much down with people returning clothes. It's the Wal-Mart. It is not a high-fashion type of place where you can send sales clerks out for twenty-seven different variations of a pink blouse in a large and then ask "Does this make me look fat." Chances are, if you're shopping for fashion at the House of Wal, you're not a discriminating shopper in the first place. Grab and go. That's the motto.
Anyway. Probably 4 out of five of the clothing returns we get come back with the tags still attached. Most of the rest at least come back with the tags after they've been cut off to try on, or because they were given as gifts. The one in ten that don't come back with any sort of tags usually look like they've been through wreck on the turnpike and then used to make a tourniquet. And then worn out to a rave with a Zombie Bloodbath Bash theme the next night.
Every now and again, we get back used undergarments and ladies intimates. I've actually taken back swim trucks that made me think I was at the beach - they smelled so strongly of ocean water, beach sand and salt. I swear to Kali we were about thirty seconds from hanging ten with Kelly Slater up at my counter.
My point. I had one. Somewhere. Right.
This man brings up a buggy full of white. At first I thought it was sheets or maybe a comforter, because people do that - unpack sheets and are then completely unable to get the stuff back in the package. Oh no, it was shirts. Lots and lots of shirts.
White cotton button-down dress shirts. The ultra-cheap Wal-Mart $17.64 type. FIFTEEN OF THEM. Not one. Not two. FIFTEEN. QUINCE.
These shirts are sold in sealed plastic packages. None of these shirts had packages. None of them. He throws the wad of shirts up on the counter and I start counting. I ask him "Are all these the same?" The answer is the affirmative. I start counting. We get up to fifteen and my mind boggles.
And he has a receipt. A receipt from a week ago no less. I'm screaming to ask "What the hell do you do with fifteen white cheap faux cotton dress shirts in a week? What the hell?"
Thankfully, he supplies the answer without me having to ask.
"I bought all of these and took them straight to the dry cleaner. I didn't notice they were long-sleeved. I wanted short sleeves."
I'm pressing [REPEAT LAST ITEM] and then [ENTER] on my touchscreen fourteen times while he's talking. When he says dry cleaner I pause. Surely this man is not taking Wal-Mart shirts to the dry cleaner.
But then he confirms my worst fears.
"I dry clean all my clothes before I wear them. When I picked them up from the cleaners, that was when I noticed the long sleeves." You sir, have too much money.
So, load them up into the car and drive all fifteen freshly chemically treated shirts straight back to the House of Wal for your $280.48 (complete with tax) back.
I can understand cleaning your clothes.
I can understand buying the wrong shirt - maybe not FIFTEEN of them, but I can understand buying the wrong shirt.
I can certainly understand washing anything you buy at Wal-Mart before wearing it.
I can MAYBE understand dry cleaning your House of Wal garments. I mean, they DO come from the House of Wal.
This man, I do not get. Not in any way, shape or form.
Anyway. Probably 4 out of five of the clothing returns we get come back with the tags still attached. Most of the rest at least come back with the tags after they've been cut off to try on, or because they were given as gifts. The one in ten that don't come back with any sort of tags usually look like they've been through wreck on the turnpike and then used to make a tourniquet. And then worn out to a rave with a Zombie Bloodbath Bash theme the next night.
Every now and again, we get back used undergarments and ladies intimates. I've actually taken back swim trucks that made me think I was at the beach - they smelled so strongly of ocean water, beach sand and salt. I swear to Kali we were about thirty seconds from hanging ten with Kelly Slater up at my counter.
My point. I had one. Somewhere. Right.
This man brings up a buggy full of white. At first I thought it was sheets or maybe a comforter, because people do that - unpack sheets and are then completely unable to get the stuff back in the package. Oh no, it was shirts. Lots and lots of shirts.
White cotton button-down dress shirts. The ultra-cheap Wal-Mart $17.64 type. FIFTEEN OF THEM. Not one. Not two. FIFTEEN. QUINCE.
These shirts are sold in sealed plastic packages. None of these shirts had packages. None of them. He throws the wad of shirts up on the counter and I start counting. I ask him "Are all these the same?" The answer is the affirmative. I start counting. We get up to fifteen and my mind boggles.
And he has a receipt. A receipt from a week ago no less. I'm screaming to ask "What the hell do you do with fifteen white cheap faux cotton dress shirts in a week? What the hell?"
Thankfully, he supplies the answer without me having to ask.
"I bought all of these and took them straight to the dry cleaner. I didn't notice they were long-sleeved. I wanted short sleeves."
I'm pressing [REPEAT LAST ITEM] and then [ENTER] on my touchscreen fourteen times while he's talking. When he says dry cleaner I pause. Surely this man is not taking Wal-Mart shirts to the dry cleaner.
But then he confirms my worst fears.
"I dry clean all my clothes before I wear them. When I picked them up from the cleaners, that was when I noticed the long sleeves." You sir, have too much money.
So, load them up into the car and drive all fifteen freshly chemically treated shirts straight back to the House of Wal for your $280.48 (complete with tax) back.
I can understand cleaning your clothes.
I can understand buying the wrong shirt - maybe not FIFTEEN of them, but I can understand buying the wrong shirt.
I can certainly understand washing anything you buy at Wal-Mart before wearing it.
I can MAYBE understand dry cleaning your House of Wal garments. I mean, they DO come from the House of Wal.
This man, I do not get. Not in any way, shape or form.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
A new low
We have now reached a new low. Someone manage to BREAK one of the toilet seats in the mens' loo. Not the hinge. One of the arms.
Either fat or force. Either is terrifying. Why Kali why? Was it then taken as a token of the destruction?
My porcelain. Let me show you it.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
I let my man sleep with another woman
What I love more than anything else about working at the House of Wal is the fascinating peek I get behind the socio-economic curtain of the lives of the people who shop there. And who really seem to live there.
Case in point. This female (not yet a woman) comes up to Customer Service on Saturday morning. Thankfully it was fairly quiet at the time. She’s wearing a pair of pajama bottoms with flaming eight-balls blazoned all over them and a pair of pink fuzzy slippers. Her shirt reads “So Much Work To Do – So Few People To Do It For Me.” She is in such desperate need of a bra that I seriously consider going to buy her one out of my pocket. I just can’t handle the distraction of those gigantic deflated soccer balls banging around in my face.
She’s toting a tiny baby in filthy romper. No shoes and the diaper looks to be full. Very full. sniff, sniff Yep. Very, very full.
She needs the phone book.
Apparently, she was having the battery replaced on her car and “accidentally” left her purse, wallet and credit cards at home when she decided to run out to Wal-Mart for a new battery. Uh-huh. Because I always go to Wal-Mart with a eight-month-old baby, no diapers and no purse.
So now she’s got to call someone (never did hear who) at their work to bring her some money so she can get the car out of hock so SHE can go to work. Because she’s already late for work. Because the car wouldn’t start. And she’s got to go home and take a shower. And drop the baby off at somebody’s.
She hollers on the phone for a while. I hear the phrase “Well, can’t you just ride the bike over here?” Kali on a crutch – don’t they have any working cars?
She seems satisfied, because she bangs the phone down and settles down on the bench to wait. Of course, she turns out to be a talker and the baby turns out to be a howler, so she winds up wandering around Customer Service trying to keep the child quiet.
During the twenty minute wait, while I’m trying to clean out buggies of returns left me by the overnight staff – and listening to her howler screech with glee at Halloween costumes – she drops all these nuggets.
1. “Yeah. My baby dirty. She had a banana for dinner last night. It was kind of black, but she ate it anyway.” Good parenting never goes out of style.
2. “It was never the same after I let my man sleep with that other girl.” She repeated this one several times. It was clearly an issue, even if she protested that it wasn't. It kept finding its way back into the not-conversation we were NOT having.
3. “We had other women in our life, but not like that.” HOW WERE THEY IN YOUR LIFE BEFORE? As occasional furniture? Brunette coffee tables perhaps? Personally, I thought blonde was the IT color for lamps at PEOPLEKEA!
4. “I’m friends with both of them now.” Keep your friends close, your enemies closer.
5. “That other woman, she 18 now. I can’t get mad at my man for running off with her. He’s good to my baby now. We all live together.” What the hell? Is this a commune or just some seriously screwed up mess?
6. “We had this doll, about a foot tall. My baby likes to hump it. She love to hump that doll.” This baby gonna be trouble.
7. “We had to burn the doll. My man thought it was like Chucky or something. It would move around the house. When we burned it, it smelled like meat. And it didn’t look like plastic.” There was more - details about the "Chucky" doll and its adventures. I kept looking for Jennifer Tilly to show up or something.
8. “That doll, we got it from a homeless shelter. Some dude give it to us. Here, you want a doll?” Because accepting items from men at homeless shelters is ALWAYS a good plan.
9. “I’m late for work. But I’m not going to call them. I’m going to show them the receipt and tell them I was having car trouble.” Receipts from Wal-Mart. Your Get Out of Jail Free card for life!
10. “My baby love French fries, hash browns, tater tots, mashed potatoes. She don’t like baked potato. She like peas. Sweet peas. And beans. Whooo. She fart a lot too.”
11. “I give her milk, chocolate milk, juice and tea. She don’t get no soda.”
12. “I like Oprah.” Oprah. Her power extends even to the white trash masses.
13. “I got put in jail once. The police put me in because I threatened to kill myself when I was pregnant. You tell me. My man leaving me for some seventeen year old hooker and I’m all pregnant and stuff. You gonna be upset too.”
14. “My man leaves and I call the police. You better get over here or I’m gonna start cutting. So they locked me up for a week. I take pills now.” Can I have some? Please Shiva can I have some?
It was like staring into a gaping maw of meaningless mundanity. She wasn't really mean or evil or even particularly scammy - except for the fact that she somehow managed to forget her purse and the baby's diaper bag on a trip to Wal-Mart. (Found out later she offered to leave her house key as "collateral" if they'd let her drive home for the money. Uh huh.)
I don't really know how to describe her - other than .... sad. About twenty years old, uneducated, saddled with a child she clearly loves but is in no way prepared to deal with and going nowhere with her life.
Eventually, someone showed up with money. They went back to TLE. I never heard a call for management, so they must have paid and left. Vaya con dios flaming eight-ball pants lady. I hope your baby doesn't grow up to be a Vegas hooker.
Case in point. This female (not yet a woman) comes up to Customer Service on Saturday morning. Thankfully it was fairly quiet at the time. She’s wearing a pair of pajama bottoms with flaming eight-balls blazoned all over them and a pair of pink fuzzy slippers. Her shirt reads “So Much Work To Do – So Few People To Do It For Me.” She is in such desperate need of a bra that I seriously consider going to buy her one out of my pocket. I just can’t handle the distraction of those gigantic deflated soccer balls banging around in my face.
She’s toting a tiny baby in filthy romper. No shoes and the diaper looks to be full. Very full. sniff, sniff Yep. Very, very full.
She needs the phone book.
Apparently, she was having the battery replaced on her car and “accidentally” left her purse, wallet and credit cards at home when she decided to run out to Wal-Mart for a new battery. Uh-huh. Because I always go to Wal-Mart with a eight-month-old baby, no diapers and no purse.
So now she’s got to call someone (never did hear who) at their work to bring her some money so she can get the car out of hock so SHE can go to work. Because she’s already late for work. Because the car wouldn’t start. And she’s got to go home and take a shower. And drop the baby off at somebody’s.
She hollers on the phone for a while. I hear the phrase “Well, can’t you just ride the bike over here?” Kali on a crutch – don’t they have any working cars?
She seems satisfied, because she bangs the phone down and settles down on the bench to wait. Of course, she turns out to be a talker and the baby turns out to be a howler, so she winds up wandering around Customer Service trying to keep the child quiet.
During the twenty minute wait, while I’m trying to clean out buggies of returns left me by the overnight staff – and listening to her howler screech with glee at Halloween costumes – she drops all these nuggets.
1. “Yeah. My baby dirty. She had a banana for dinner last night. It was kind of black, but she ate it anyway.” Good parenting never goes out of style.
2. “It was never the same after I let my man sleep with that other girl.” She repeated this one several times. It was clearly an issue, even if she protested that it wasn't. It kept finding its way back into the not-conversation we were NOT having.
3. “We had other women in our life, but not like that.” HOW WERE THEY IN YOUR LIFE BEFORE? As occasional furniture? Brunette coffee tables perhaps? Personally, I thought blonde was the IT color for lamps at PEOPLEKEA!
4. “I’m friends with both of them now.” Keep your friends close, your enemies closer.
5. “That other woman, she 18 now. I can’t get mad at my man for running off with her. He’s good to my baby now. We all live together.” What the hell? Is this a commune or just some seriously screwed up mess?
6. “We had this doll, about a foot tall. My baby likes to hump it. She love to hump that doll.” This baby gonna be trouble.
7. “We had to burn the doll. My man thought it was like Chucky or something. It would move around the house. When we burned it, it smelled like meat. And it didn’t look like plastic.” There was more - details about the "Chucky" doll and its adventures. I kept looking for Jennifer Tilly to show up or something.
8. “That doll, we got it from a homeless shelter. Some dude give it to us. Here, you want a doll?” Because accepting items from men at homeless shelters is ALWAYS a good plan.
9. “I’m late for work. But I’m not going to call them. I’m going to show them the receipt and tell them I was having car trouble.” Receipts from Wal-Mart. Your Get Out of Jail Free card for life!
10. “My baby love French fries, hash browns, tater tots, mashed potatoes. She don’t like baked potato. She like peas. Sweet peas. And beans. Whooo. She fart a lot too.”
11. “I give her milk, chocolate milk, juice and tea. She don’t get no soda.”
12. “I like Oprah.” Oprah. Her power extends even to the white trash masses.
13. “I got put in jail once. The police put me in because I threatened to kill myself when I was pregnant. You tell me. My man leaving me for some seventeen year old hooker and I’m all pregnant and stuff. You gonna be upset too.”
14. “My man leaves and I call the police. You better get over here or I’m gonna start cutting. So they locked me up for a week. I take pills now.” Can I have some? Please Shiva can I have some?
It was like staring into a gaping maw of meaningless mundanity. She wasn't really mean or evil or even particularly scammy - except for the fact that she somehow managed to forget her purse and the baby's diaper bag on a trip to Wal-Mart. (Found out later she offered to leave her house key as "collateral" if they'd let her drive home for the money. Uh huh.)
I don't really know how to describe her - other than .... sad. About twenty years old, uneducated, saddled with a child she clearly loves but is in no way prepared to deal with and going nowhere with her life.
Eventually, someone showed up with money. They went back to TLE. I never heard a call for management, so they must have paid and left. Vaya con dios flaming eight-ball pants lady. I hope your baby doesn't grow up to be a Vegas hooker.
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
Remote controlled
It must be something they put in the Sam's Choice water. That or all the recalled hamburger meat.
This dude rolls up with a $697.00 television. Honestly, I forget what kind it was. I know it was on clearance - because only clearance prices end in .00. The television itself is unimportant. Gentleman had a receipt. The merchandise was 12 days old. It wasn't a sucky customer. It just serves to illustrate the "more money than sense" principle.
ME: "Can I help you?"
TV MAN: "I want to return this TV."
ME: "OK. What's wrong with it."
TV MAN: "It doesn't work."
ME: "OK. What specifically is wrong with it."
TV MAN: "It won't change channels."
ME: "On the remote or the TV or what?"
TV MAN: "Just the remote. The remote doesn't work." Because in this day and age, walking three feet to the television is a battle of epic proportions.
ME: "OK. Did you put the batteries in the remote?" You would be so surprised.
TV MAN: "Yes."
ME: "OK. Did you put change the batteries?"
TV MAN: "No." Because that would only be logical. But wait, you're shopping at Wal-Mart.
ME: "OK. It might be just a bad remote. Do you want me to see if we have any more of these TVs in stock?"
TV MAN: "OK." And I go check. No dice.
ME: "I'm sorry, but we don't have any more of these. It's a clearance TV. Do you want me to call a manager and see if we can work something out to get you a replacement remote or a universal remote?"
TV MAN: "No man. I don't really like the TV anyway. Just give me my money back."
ME: "Certainly."
PS MERCH RETURN, DEFECTIVE, CASH, ENTER, TOTAL, count the hundreds and change. "Sign here please sir." Go pay your rent now or go buy some drugs.
Because the first thing I do with a $700 television is return it when the channel-changer doesn't work.
It's not like the manufacturer won't ship a new remote for free. Or some Wal-Manager eager to keep a $700 sale wouldn't have marked down a universal remote for him.
I still don't understand Wal-Martian customers. Buy it, use it, rent it, return it.
If we charged restocking fees it would cut into this type of crap.
This dude rolls up with a $697.00 television. Honestly, I forget what kind it was. I know it was on clearance - because only clearance prices end in .00. The television itself is unimportant. Gentleman had a receipt. The merchandise was 12 days old. It wasn't a sucky customer. It just serves to illustrate the "more money than sense" principle.
ME: "Can I help you?"
TV MAN: "I want to return this TV."
ME: "OK. What's wrong with it."
TV MAN: "It doesn't work."
ME: "OK. What specifically is wrong with it."
TV MAN: "It won't change channels."
ME: "On the remote or the TV or what?"
TV MAN: "Just the remote. The remote doesn't work." Because in this day and age, walking three feet to the television is a battle of epic proportions.
ME: "OK. Did you put the batteries in the remote?" You would be so surprised.
TV MAN: "Yes."
ME: "OK. Did you put change the batteries?"
TV MAN: "No." Because that would only be logical. But wait, you're shopping at Wal-Mart.
ME: "OK. It might be just a bad remote. Do you want me to see if we have any more of these TVs in stock?"
TV MAN: "OK." And I go check. No dice.
ME: "I'm sorry, but we don't have any more of these. It's a clearance TV. Do you want me to call a manager and see if we can work something out to get you a replacement remote or a universal remote?"
TV MAN: "No man. I don't really like the TV anyway. Just give me my money back."
ME: "Certainly."
PS MERCH RETURN, DEFECTIVE, CASH, ENTER, TOTAL, count the hundreds and change. "Sign here please sir." Go pay your rent now or go buy some drugs.
Because the first thing I do with a $700 television is return it when the channel-changer doesn't work.
It's not like the manufacturer won't ship a new remote for free. Or some Wal-Manager eager to keep a $700 sale wouldn't have marked down a universal remote for him.
I still don't understand Wal-Martian customers. Buy it, use it, rent it, return it.
If we charged restocking fees it would cut into this type of crap.
Thursday, October 04, 2007
How high
I'm putting away some of the stuff that people leave at the registers and I go behind the partition at our Service Desk to get to the bins for Hardware and Sporting Goods when I hear my supervisor call me.
"This man needs some change."
I dump out the stuff I've got in my hands and go back out front. My supervisor is about to open my register, but waits on me. Generally, I'm not a fan of them opening "my" register without me, even though we're not directly responsible for our money anymore.
Anyway, I ask the guy what kind of change he wants and it is like his brain stops working.
Then I notice he is as high as a kite - either some really good pot, pills or something. I mean this dude was FLYING!
He holds out three twenties. I take them and look at him and say again. "What kind of change do you want?"
He goes "Bluh." Seriously. That was the sound. "Bluh."
And hits a mental wall. I could see wheels turning. Gears start grinding. Smoke comes out his ears. Then the mental engine starts again and his words pour out. "Fiftydollarsinfivesandtenones."
"OK. You want ten fives and ten ones?"
Pause. Beat. Beat. Beat. "Yeah man."
I count at the drawer and count it back to him. "Thanks a lot man."
I turn around and ask my supervisor. "What the hell was he on?"
He tells me "He told me what change he wanted when he first came up and forgot by the time you got here. I wondered if he was going to remember. I don't know what he was on, but I know I need me some of that."
Amen. Mind-altering drugs would indeed make the workday go faster at the House of Wal.
"This man needs some change."
I dump out the stuff I've got in my hands and go back out front. My supervisor is about to open my register, but waits on me. Generally, I'm not a fan of them opening "my" register without me, even though we're not directly responsible for our money anymore.
Anyway, I ask the guy what kind of change he wants and it is like his brain stops working.
Then I notice he is as high as a kite - either some really good pot, pills or something. I mean this dude was FLYING!
He holds out three twenties. I take them and look at him and say again. "What kind of change do you want?"
He goes "Bluh." Seriously. That was the sound. "Bluh."
And hits a mental wall. I could see wheels turning. Gears start grinding. Smoke comes out his ears. Then the mental engine starts again and his words pour out. "Fiftydollarsinfivesandtenones."
"OK. You want ten fives and ten ones?"
Pause. Beat. Beat. Beat. "Yeah man."
I count at the drawer and count it back to him. "Thanks a lot man."
I turn around and ask my supervisor. "What the hell was he on?"
He tells me "He told me what change he wanted when he first came up and forgot by the time you got here. I wondered if he was going to remember. I don't know what he was on, but I know I need me some of that."
Amen. Mind-altering drugs would indeed make the workday go faster at the House of Wal.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
It's a glorious morning at the House of Wal
So Saturday I actually got a 7 a.m. - 4 p.m. shift because one of the morning girls was on vacation. I thought this was going to be a good thing. Oh was I wrong. So wrong. So badly wrong.
Things are just getting going at 7 a.m. at the Wal-Mart. Seven a.m. is the passing of the baton from the overnight supervisor to the morning supervisor. They count the change drawer, verify that all the keys have been signed in and out, etc. If the morning person is running late, well, things are just behind.
Sometimes the overnight person has to leave early. Sometimes the morning person is late. So essentially, on some mornings, there is no one "in charge" of the cashiers if they need help until either the morning person gets there whenever - or unless management strolls by in answer to a frantic page.
Cue the fun. The hilarious Wal-Mart retarded customer fun.
Customer Service doesn't open up until 7 a.m. when the morning shift comes in. There's money in the register, there's just no one there to staff it. Plus, no MoneyGram or money orders can be done until 7 a.m. Returns between the hours of 11 p.m. and 7 a.m. are done at the regular registers - but have to be approved by management or the overnight supervisor. WHY? Because the PS MERCH RETURN key only works on the Customer Service registers. Everywhere else requires that you either stick the override key in the register or get approval via the handheld computer.
I can hear the pages as I straggle in at 6:45 a.m. with a triple venti mint mocha. "CSM to Register 15 for a return, CSM to Register 15 for a return." I hear it as I come in the door. And again as I go through the doors to the employee lounge in the back. And again as I put my phone and keys in my locker. And again as I put my lunch away. And the whole time I'm trying to finish my coffee in peace.
Obviously the overnight person has already left. But they're paging away. And management isn't coming. As per usual.
I finish my coffee and clock in five minutes early. I'm a glutton for punishment.
I make my way through the softlines (clothing) and I can see a man stomping off from Register 15 and heading toward Customer Service. Lovely. First one out of the gate is going to be a screamer. Little did I know.
The overnight accounting office girl is leaving, and he starts yelling at her "Are you a manager? I want a manager right now. I want a return right now. I've been waiting 15 minutes and I want a manager right now. Is this how you treat your customers? Is it?" Can you say tirade?
I'm near Register 14 when this goes down, and I see the overnight manager FINALLY coming from one direction. The accounting office girl doesn't see him or me, but looks at her watch and says "Just wait about three minutes sir. Customer Service opens up at 7 a.m."
In the pantheon of "wrong things to say," this one was right up there with "Let's conquer Russia in the winter" or "No baby, I don't watch porn."
The crazy man actually ramps the crazy UP a notch now and really goes off. I'm standing there just in awe, not even offering to help, because I'm just so entranced. "DO YOU MEAN TO TELL ME THAT I HAVE TO WAIT UNTIL 7 A.M. TO RETURN THIS? IS THAT HOW IT IS? I WANT YOUR NAME. IS THAT YOU YOU TREAT CUSTOMERS? BY TELLING THEM TO WAIT?"
By now, the overnight manger is there and trying to pour oil on much-troubled waters. "Can I help you sir."
Crazy Man goes "SHE'S TELLING ME I CAN'T RETURN THIS BECAUSE IT'S NOT 7 A.M. I HAD TO WAIT FIFTEEN MINUTES OVER THERE. WHERE WERE YOU? ARE YOU A MANAGER? IS THIS HOW YOU MANAGE? YOU'RE A PRETTY BAD MANAGER AS FAR AS I CAN TELL!"
I'm in awe. I'm not even awake and this man is just hitting gears I didn't even know existed at 7 a.m.
The overnight manger is like "Sir, I can take care of you. I can open up Customer Service at any time for a return. Or I can take care of you at any other register."
Crazy Man is still crazy. And still yelling at the top of his lungs. "SO IS SHE LYING OR ARE YOU LYING? YOU'RE GOING TO OPEN IT? SO WHY DID SHE SAY IT WAS CLOSED? WHY IS SHE EVEN HELPING PEOPLE IF SHE DOESN'T KNOW ANYTHING. I'M GOING TO CALL AND GET HER FIRED. I'M GOING TO GET YOU FIRED."
Ooooooookaaaaaaaay. Crazy man is still crazy.
The overnight manager sees me and asks me to do the man's return. I'm like "Oh. Yeah. I'm supposed to be working. Not spectating."
I sign on and start the return. But Crazy Man is still crazy.
"I WANT YOUR NAME. I WANT THE STORE MANAGER'S NAME. I WANT THE STORE NUMBER. I WANT THE STORE PHONE NUMBER. I WANT TO KNOW HOW TO GET IN TOUCH WITH HIM. DOES HE KNOW YOU TREAT CUSTOMERS LIKE THIS? DOES HE KNOW YOU JUST DECIDE TO OPEN AND CLOSE THINGS? DOES HE KNOW YOU TALK TO ME LIKE THIS?"
The overnight manager goes to the printer at the service desk, writes down his name, the store manager's name and the store number. He wishes the man a good morning and walks off.
I finish the return, NOT AT ALL HAPPY to be left at Customer Service with Crazy Man.
He walks out just past the entrance to Customer Service and pulls out a cell phone and starts dialing. I hear the phone start ringing and go over. I see the line light up for MAIN 1, which means a call coming through from an outside line. The phone is still on night service, so the operator is not in yet. The man snarls and hangs up. The phone light goes off. He hammers the keys again and the phone lights up again. No amount of money in the world would have convinced me to pick up that phone.
He finally snarled again and walked off. If and when he finally did get through, I would not have wanted to be on the other end of that call. I'd love to know who or what took a whiz in his cornflakes though.
Oh. What was he returning? Two OPEN children's sports mouthguards. Total refund? $4.24.
Things are just getting going at 7 a.m. at the Wal-Mart. Seven a.m. is the passing of the baton from the overnight supervisor to the morning supervisor. They count the change drawer, verify that all the keys have been signed in and out, etc. If the morning person is running late, well, things are just behind.
Sometimes the overnight person has to leave early. Sometimes the morning person is late. So essentially, on some mornings, there is no one "in charge" of the cashiers if they need help until either the morning person gets there whenever - or unless management strolls by in answer to a frantic page.
Cue the fun. The hilarious Wal-Mart retarded customer fun.
Customer Service doesn't open up until 7 a.m. when the morning shift comes in. There's money in the register, there's just no one there to staff it. Plus, no MoneyGram or money orders can be done until 7 a.m. Returns between the hours of 11 p.m. and 7 a.m. are done at the regular registers - but have to be approved by management or the overnight supervisor. WHY? Because the PS MERCH RETURN key only works on the Customer Service registers. Everywhere else requires that you either stick the override key in the register or get approval via the handheld computer.
I can hear the pages as I straggle in at 6:45 a.m. with a triple venti mint mocha. "CSM to Register 15 for a return, CSM to Register 15 for a return." I hear it as I come in the door. And again as I go through the doors to the employee lounge in the back. And again as I put my phone and keys in my locker. And again as I put my lunch away. And the whole time I'm trying to finish my coffee in peace.
Obviously the overnight person has already left. But they're paging away. And management isn't coming. As per usual.
I finish my coffee and clock in five minutes early. I'm a glutton for punishment.
I make my way through the softlines (clothing) and I can see a man stomping off from Register 15 and heading toward Customer Service. Lovely. First one out of the gate is going to be a screamer. Little did I know.
The overnight accounting office girl is leaving, and he starts yelling at her "Are you a manager? I want a manager right now. I want a return right now. I've been waiting 15 minutes and I want a manager right now. Is this how you treat your customers? Is it?" Can you say tirade?
I'm near Register 14 when this goes down, and I see the overnight manager FINALLY coming from one direction. The accounting office girl doesn't see him or me, but looks at her watch and says "Just wait about three minutes sir. Customer Service opens up at 7 a.m."
In the pantheon of "wrong things to say," this one was right up there with "Let's conquer Russia in the winter" or "No baby, I don't watch porn."
The crazy man actually ramps the crazy UP a notch now and really goes off. I'm standing there just in awe, not even offering to help, because I'm just so entranced. "DO YOU MEAN TO TELL ME THAT I HAVE TO WAIT UNTIL 7 A.M. TO RETURN THIS? IS THAT HOW IT IS? I WANT YOUR NAME. IS THAT YOU YOU TREAT CUSTOMERS? BY TELLING THEM TO WAIT?"
By now, the overnight manger is there and trying to pour oil on much-troubled waters. "Can I help you sir."
Crazy Man goes "SHE'S TELLING ME I CAN'T RETURN THIS BECAUSE IT'S NOT 7 A.M. I HAD TO WAIT FIFTEEN MINUTES OVER THERE. WHERE WERE YOU? ARE YOU A MANAGER? IS THIS HOW YOU MANAGE? YOU'RE A PRETTY BAD MANAGER AS FAR AS I CAN TELL!"
I'm in awe. I'm not even awake and this man is just hitting gears I didn't even know existed at 7 a.m.
The overnight manger is like "Sir, I can take care of you. I can open up Customer Service at any time for a return. Or I can take care of you at any other register."
Crazy Man is still crazy. And still yelling at the top of his lungs. "SO IS SHE LYING OR ARE YOU LYING? YOU'RE GOING TO OPEN IT? SO WHY DID SHE SAY IT WAS CLOSED? WHY IS SHE EVEN HELPING PEOPLE IF SHE DOESN'T KNOW ANYTHING. I'M GOING TO CALL AND GET HER FIRED. I'M GOING TO GET YOU FIRED."
Ooooooookaaaaaaaay. Crazy man is still crazy.
The overnight manager sees me and asks me to do the man's return. I'm like "Oh. Yeah. I'm supposed to be working. Not spectating."
I sign on and start the return. But Crazy Man is still crazy.
"I WANT YOUR NAME. I WANT THE STORE MANAGER'S NAME. I WANT THE STORE NUMBER. I WANT THE STORE PHONE NUMBER. I WANT TO KNOW HOW TO GET IN TOUCH WITH HIM. DOES HE KNOW YOU TREAT CUSTOMERS LIKE THIS? DOES HE KNOW YOU JUST DECIDE TO OPEN AND CLOSE THINGS? DOES HE KNOW YOU TALK TO ME LIKE THIS?"
The overnight manager goes to the printer at the service desk, writes down his name, the store manager's name and the store number. He wishes the man a good morning and walks off.
I finish the return, NOT AT ALL HAPPY to be left at Customer Service with Crazy Man.
He walks out just past the entrance to Customer Service and pulls out a cell phone and starts dialing. I hear the phone start ringing and go over. I see the line light up for MAIN 1, which means a call coming through from an outside line. The phone is still on night service, so the operator is not in yet. The man snarls and hangs up. The phone light goes off. He hammers the keys again and the phone lights up again. No amount of money in the world would have convinced me to pick up that phone.
He finally snarled again and walked off. If and when he finally did get through, I would not have wanted to be on the other end of that call. I'd love to know who or what took a whiz in his cornflakes though.
Oh. What was he returning? Two OPEN children's sports mouthguards. Total refund? $4.24.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Bang, bang, bang (went the angry man!)
When there isn't a line at Customer Service (HAH!), one of our duties is to sort through the buggies and buggies (and buggies and buggies and buggies) of returns and re-shops (things people leave around the store) and prepare them for transport back out to the respective departments.
Our Customer Service area has a counter with four registers, then a low wall (more of a ledge) with a shelf behind it that bins sit on top of and under. We can reach over the shelf to fill the bins for the returns we get in the "popular" departments (Shoes, clothes, Electronics, Toys, Domestics Infants), but we have to walk behind the wall - and thus out of sight of the customers - to dump stuff into Hardware, Sporting Goods, Garden, Auto, and things we don't take back as much of.
When a particular bin gets full, we dump it into an empty shopping cart and call for pickup. Theoretically, associates from the departments should be dropping off their re-shops (items customers leave in their area) and picking up their own returns every hour - but this is the House of Wal. They dump a buggy on us at the end of their shift and flee without taking anything.
Anyway. To make a long story longer .... I have a blessedly quiet half-second Saturday night (probably because of the torrential rainstorm that is overhead) and I'm loading up carts. I'm behind the wall loading up the Hardware buggy - FOUR toilet seats (who returns a toilet seat? or carries one around the store and decides they don't want it?). I try to listen for customers and peek every thirty seconds or so. It's not like I'm just walking away and going shopping.
I'm doing my best Mario and Luigi impression on these toilets, plus an assortment of other Hardware items and trying not to crush the light bulbs in the process. Then I hear a banging, like a hammer being literally taken to wood and a voice yelling "SOMEBODY BETTER GET OUT HERE!" Keep in mind I've been out of sight maybe 30 seconds tops - and I've been on camera the entire time.
I'm thinking "These people cannot be serious." I look around the corner and it is a pissed-off looking old man, who has picked up a defective alarm clock I've not had time to put away and is BANGING IT ON THE COUNTER in a bid to get my attention.
I decide to play this one for all it's worth. I've had it with the House of Wal and the entitlement issues suffered by the fools who shop there.
"Yes sir. Can we heeeeelp you sir? What do you need sir?" I snarked it out just like that. Like I'm some snobby British shopkeep. Or from "Are You Being Served?" And I give him a look like "Are you crazy?"
His reply? "You better hope you can." I don't better hope nothing. I can and will tear that broken alarm clock from your hands, brain you upside the head with it and then fix it and use it to be on time for your funeral. Where I will proceed to dance a jig, throw flowers and finally hold a seance to call up your spirit and shout "Neener-neener."
"Well what did you need sir?" Delivered in my best Customer Service faux politeness while looking down my nose and over my glasses (but I secretly hope for a team of ninja warrior trolls to come along and slice you, dice you and cook you with carrots, potatoes, onions and a dash of celery, garlic and a touch of thyme for stew) voice.
His reply? "We want some help in Housewares. We've been waiting for 15 minutes." Again with the royal We. All this entitlement I'm going to have to start talking in the third person just to keep up. Or maybe in the fourth person.
Me? "Sir. There may not be anyone in Housewares." Or maybe you just have bad B.O.
His reply? "Well, I want someone."
Let's break this down. I'm not saying the request for service is unreasonable. IT ISN'T. There should be someone there to help you. You are a customer and you are allegedly going to give us money for products (unlike a good number of our erstwhile "patrons). However, this is the Wal-Mart. You get what you pay for. Are you really paying for service? No. End of discussion.
Now, what you want and what you need are two entirely different things. You might want cheap plastic crap. What you need is to be chopped into small pieces, put into a big Rubbermaid tote and dumped into the Everglades to feed the alligators.
This man is so pissed of he managed to walk right by two managers. You know, the kind you can identify because they're have that "manager" look. And oh-yeah, they have walkie-talkies and big key rings and are carrying around clipboards and are standing around doing nothing.
Me? "Sir, do you see those two people right there? The African-American woman and Hispanic gentleman with radios? Those are the two managers on duty. You walked right by them. Either one of them would be very happy to help you."
His reply? "I want them to come talk to me." OK. Because walking eight feet is just going to break an ankle? I'll play that game though.
Me? Starts yelling. "JULIO! MANDY! JULIO! MANDY!" Waves arms, makes motion to come to Customer Service.
All the man wanted was a vacuum cleaner down off the top shelf. *sigh*
I am sure it will get returned in a week anyway. "It doesn't suck." No, but you sure as hell do.
Our Customer Service area has a counter with four registers, then a low wall (more of a ledge) with a shelf behind it that bins sit on top of and under. We can reach over the shelf to fill the bins for the returns we get in the "popular" departments (Shoes, clothes, Electronics, Toys, Domestics Infants), but we have to walk behind the wall - and thus out of sight of the customers - to dump stuff into Hardware, Sporting Goods, Garden, Auto, and things we don't take back as much of.
When a particular bin gets full, we dump it into an empty shopping cart and call for pickup. Theoretically, associates from the departments should be dropping off their re-shops (items customers leave in their area) and picking up their own returns every hour - but this is the House of Wal. They dump a buggy on us at the end of their shift and flee without taking anything.
Anyway. To make a long story longer .... I have a blessedly quiet half-second Saturday night (probably because of the torrential rainstorm that is overhead) and I'm loading up carts. I'm behind the wall loading up the Hardware buggy - FOUR toilet seats (who returns a toilet seat? or carries one around the store and decides they don't want it?). I try to listen for customers and peek every thirty seconds or so. It's not like I'm just walking away and going shopping.
I'm doing my best Mario and Luigi impression on these toilets, plus an assortment of other Hardware items and trying not to crush the light bulbs in the process. Then I hear a banging, like a hammer being literally taken to wood and a voice yelling "SOMEBODY BETTER GET OUT HERE!" Keep in mind I've been out of sight maybe 30 seconds tops - and I've been on camera the entire time.
I'm thinking "These people cannot be serious." I look around the corner and it is a pissed-off looking old man, who has picked up a defective alarm clock I've not had time to put away and is BANGING IT ON THE COUNTER in a bid to get my attention.
I decide to play this one for all it's worth. I've had it with the House of Wal and the entitlement issues suffered by the fools who shop there.
"Yes sir. Can we heeeeelp you sir? What do you need sir?" I snarked it out just like that. Like I'm some snobby British shopkeep. Or from "Are You Being Served?" And I give him a look like "Are you crazy?"
His reply? "You better hope you can." I don't better hope nothing. I can and will tear that broken alarm clock from your hands, brain you upside the head with it and then fix it and use it to be on time for your funeral. Where I will proceed to dance a jig, throw flowers and finally hold a seance to call up your spirit and shout "Neener-neener."
"Well what did you need sir?" Delivered in my best Customer Service faux politeness while looking down my nose and over my glasses (but I secretly hope for a team of ninja warrior trolls to come along and slice you, dice you and cook you with carrots, potatoes, onions and a dash of celery, garlic and a touch of thyme for stew) voice.
His reply? "We want some help in Housewares. We've been waiting for 15 minutes." Again with the royal We. All this entitlement I'm going to have to start talking in the third person just to keep up. Or maybe in the fourth person.
Me? "Sir. There may not be anyone in Housewares." Or maybe you just have bad B.O.
His reply? "Well, I want someone."
Let's break this down. I'm not saying the request for service is unreasonable. IT ISN'T. There should be someone there to help you. You are a customer and you are allegedly going to give us money for products (unlike a good number of our erstwhile "patrons). However, this is the Wal-Mart. You get what you pay for. Are you really paying for service? No. End of discussion.
Now, what you want and what you need are two entirely different things. You might want cheap plastic crap. What you need is to be chopped into small pieces, put into a big Rubbermaid tote and dumped into the Everglades to feed the alligators.
This man is so pissed of he managed to walk right by two managers. You know, the kind you can identify because they're have that "manager" look. And oh-yeah, they have walkie-talkies and big key rings and are carrying around clipboards and are standing around doing nothing.
Me? "Sir, do you see those two people right there? The African-American woman and Hispanic gentleman with radios? Those are the two managers on duty. You walked right by them. Either one of them would be very happy to help you."
His reply? "I want them to come talk to me." OK. Because walking eight feet is just going to break an ankle? I'll play that game though.
Me? Starts yelling. "JULIO! MANDY! JULIO! MANDY!" Waves arms, makes motion to come to Customer Service.
All the man wanted was a vacuum cleaner down off the top shelf. *sigh*
I am sure it will get returned in a week anyway. "It doesn't suck." No, but you sure as hell do.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
The world is flat
A man returned four cases of Pepsi today because he said it tasted flat and was what he called skunky. Skunky? That's a new one.
Then he asked me how I deal with all the crazy customers I get.
I smiled and told him I kept my cool and tried not to talk to crazy people much. Mr. Skunky Cola didn't get it.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
The monkeys at the zoo
Look. Lady. I know. I know. I know. OK. It's Sunday. You've got your pack of howler monkeys with you and apparently Sunday night at 9 p.m. is the only time all week you can drag yourself right up off the couch and in to the House of Wal for some shopping and some returning. What you need to do to take that pack of demons home. Or turn them over to a local animal shelter. All six of them. This is Bob Barker. Thank you for help controlling the pet population in L.A. Remember to have yourself spayed or neutered.
Back to me. Ma'am. Please do me the courtesy of looking at me. Not at your child making noise with one of my nineteen buggies of returns. I'm not going to be able to return this copy of "Zoo Tycoon 2: African Safari Expansion Pack."
Roll tape:
ME: "Ma'am, I can't return that. We don't return open software, movies, music or DVDs."
HER: "It doesn't install. We tried it on three computers."
ME: "OK. I can give you another copy of the software, but I can't give you money back on this."
HER: "What about a store credit?" Seriously people. What the hell do you think a store credit is? IT IS A REFUND! "Store credit" is not code for "break the rules for my special snowflake self and approve my sketchy return."
ME: "No ma'am. No store credit. No cash. If the product is defective you can get another copy."
HER: "Well it won't install."
ME: "OK. I would advise you to sell it on eBay or take it to a GameStop."
HER: "I don't want to do that. I think I should be able to return it." I think you should have had your tubes tied four kids ago. Limit 2, like the Chinese. And your mouth sewn up for good measure. But I'm not telling you how to run your business.
ME: Pick up package. "Ma'am. This is an expansion pack for Zoo Tycoon 2. It's an add-on. You do have Zoo Tycoon 2, right?"
HER: "Uhhhhhhh. I don't know. KAYLA COME HERE RIGHT NOW! What do we have?"
KAYLA: "Oh, I just have Zoo Tycoon 1. I thought this would work."
ME: "There's your problem then. It says right on the front 'Must have Zoo Tycoon 2 installed.'"
HER: "Oh. I didn't read it when she bought it." No. You just chunked $23 dollars down on the counter like it was change for a cup of coffee. Lady, do you know how many hours I have to stand on my feet talking to people like YOU to make $23 dollars?
ME: "You just need to go buy 'Zoo Tycoon 2' for her and it will work fine."
HER: "I don't want to spend any more money."
ME: "Ma'am, we're not going to return it."
HER: "Oh."
ME: "Here's your bag back. Here's a sticker. You have a nice day."
She was being dismissed before she knew what happened. Take the children. Go. Leave. Now.
I know you got six kids and all - and they do appear to be a fistful of trouble - but that was your choice. YOUR CHOICE. YOURS. (maybe a husband or a turkey baster or whatever had something to do with it) The point remains that if you do not know what your children are buying, then you do not need to be spending money on it. "PUT THAT BACK" needs to join your vocabulary. Buddha know I heard it a lot when I was little.
Back to me. Ma'am. Please do me the courtesy of looking at me. Not at your child making noise with one of my nineteen buggies of returns. I'm not going to be able to return this copy of "Zoo Tycoon 2: African Safari Expansion Pack."
Roll tape:
ME: "Ma'am, I can't return that. We don't return open software, movies, music or DVDs."
HER: "It doesn't install. We tried it on three computers."
ME: "OK. I can give you another copy of the software, but I can't give you money back on this."
HER: "What about a store credit?" Seriously people. What the hell do you think a store credit is? IT IS A REFUND! "Store credit" is not code for "break the rules for my special snowflake self and approve my sketchy return."
ME: "No ma'am. No store credit. No cash. If the product is defective you can get another copy."
HER: "Well it won't install."
ME: "OK. I would advise you to sell it on eBay or take it to a GameStop."
HER: "I don't want to do that. I think I should be able to return it." I think you should have had your tubes tied four kids ago. Limit 2, like the Chinese. And your mouth sewn up for good measure. But I'm not telling you how to run your business.
ME: Pick up package. "Ma'am. This is an expansion pack for Zoo Tycoon 2. It's an add-on. You do have Zoo Tycoon 2, right?"
HER: "Uhhhhhhh. I don't know. KAYLA COME HERE RIGHT NOW! What do we have?"
KAYLA: "Oh, I just have Zoo Tycoon 1. I thought this would work."
ME: "There's your problem then. It says right on the front 'Must have Zoo Tycoon 2 installed.'"
HER: "Oh. I didn't read it when she bought it." No. You just chunked $23 dollars down on the counter like it was change for a cup of coffee. Lady, do you know how many hours I have to stand on my feet talking to people like YOU to make $23 dollars?
ME: "You just need to go buy 'Zoo Tycoon 2' for her and it will work fine."
HER: "I don't want to spend any more money."
ME: "Ma'am, we're not going to return it."
HER: "Oh."
ME: "Here's your bag back. Here's a sticker. You have a nice day."
She was being dismissed before she knew what happened. Take the children. Go. Leave. Now.
I know you got six kids and all - and they do appear to be a fistful of trouble - but that was your choice. YOUR CHOICE. YOURS. (maybe a husband or a turkey baster or whatever had something to do with it) The point remains that if you do not know what your children are buying, then you do not need to be spending money on it. "PUT THAT BACK" needs to join your vocabulary. Buddha know I heard it a lot when I was little.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Yes. I have returned ammuntion.
So two days ago the blogosphere was in a tizzy-hizzy over the story about the guy in San Diego who "returned" his ammunition by firing it into the parking lot of a San Diego Wal-Mart. Read the story and watch the video here.
The good and wonderful kind folks over at thewritingonthewal wondered what I would have done?
1. First, I would have politely refused him.
2. He would have argued with me.
3. I would have politely refused him again.
4. He would have gotten louder. Probably broken out with the profanity.
5. I would have held up the finger of death and gone "Sir. I cannot return ammunition."
6. He would have demanded to see a manager.
7. The manager would have told him the same thing I told him.
8. He would have gotten even louder.
9. The manager would have rolled over and showed the soft white underbelly House of Wal managers are famous for - because, you know, I HAVE RETURNED BULLETS BEFORE.
Yes, there are very, very few things that the registers actually REFUSE to allow us to return.
Bullets and ammunition are not one of those. It is store POLICY to not return ammunition. That doesn't mean it can't be returned.
If you can scan it and it comes up with a minus sign on the register at the Customer Service desk, you can get a refund on it. I mean, you might have to shout the house down and throw a total wedding hall fit, but if you are determined, you will get some scratch.
I had a manager DIRECTLY order me to return a woman's bullets that she purchased six days ago and then return because she "bought the wrong ones" one time. How she managed to NOT ACTUALLY NOTICE this when the sales associate in Sporting Goods unlocked the cabinet, put the four boxes of shotgun shells on the counter and then ring them up for a total of $48 dollars is beyond me.
To my knowledge, only a vanishingly small number of things in the store are actually not returnable by federal law:
1. Prescription drugs
2. Blood testing kits
3. Diabetic testing supplies, such as needles
4. I've never run across anything else.
Breast pumps actually say on the package DO NOT RETURN AT RETAIL - but the packages still scan back into the system. So bring your nasty used breast pump right on back into the House of Wal. We'll take it back.
The good and wonderful kind folks over at thewritingonthewal wondered what I would have done?
1. First, I would have politely refused him.
2. He would have argued with me.
3. I would have politely refused him again.
4. He would have gotten louder. Probably broken out with the profanity.
5. I would have held up the finger of death and gone "Sir. I cannot return ammunition."
6. He would have demanded to see a manager.
7. The manager would have told him the same thing I told him.
8. He would have gotten even louder.
9. The manager would have rolled over and showed the soft white underbelly House of Wal managers are famous for - because, you know, I HAVE RETURNED BULLETS BEFORE.
Yes, there are very, very few things that the registers actually REFUSE to allow us to return.
Bullets and ammunition are not one of those. It is store POLICY to not return ammunition. That doesn't mean it can't be returned.
If you can scan it and it comes up with a minus sign on the register at the Customer Service desk, you can get a refund on it. I mean, you might have to shout the house down and throw a total wedding hall fit, but if you are determined, you will get some scratch.
I had a manager DIRECTLY order me to return a woman's bullets that she purchased six days ago and then return because she "bought the wrong ones" one time. How she managed to NOT ACTUALLY NOTICE this when the sales associate in Sporting Goods unlocked the cabinet, put the four boxes of shotgun shells on the counter and then ring them up for a total of $48 dollars is beyond me.
To my knowledge, only a vanishingly small number of things in the store are actually not returnable by federal law:
1. Prescription drugs
2. Blood testing kits
3. Diabetic testing supplies, such as needles
4. I've never run across anything else.
Breast pumps actually say on the package DO NOT RETURN AT RETAIL - but the packages still scan back into the system. So bring your nasty used breast pump right on back into the House of Wal. We'll take it back.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Did Wal-Mart try to steal a baby?
There's a MySpace rant that dropped today from a woman who says she was in a store when there a CODE ADAM called. She says that a security guard demanded she hand over her baby.
1. Read her MySpace rant here.
2. Read the back and forth at Consumerist here.
I have been away from a computer nearly all of today and not even able to knock out a post on my phone. Now that I can see the furor, this is what I think.
1. We all know what I think of the trash that shops in Wal-Mart. I seriously doubt this went down the way she describes - with a Rent-A-Cop "demanding" she hand over her baby.
2. The Consumerist is being somewhat needlessly sensationalistic. Nobody tried to "steal" a baby. Wal-Mart steals your money. Not your howlers. Believe me. NOBODY there wants your crotch spawn. [disclosure: Consumerist sends a great deal of traffic to Behind the Counter]
3. CODE ADAM is a federal program created and named in memory of 6-year-old Adam Walsh, who was was abducted from a Florida shopping mall in 1981 and later found murdered. There are SPECIFIC steps businesses must follow when a child is reported lost or missing.
4. ONE OF THOSE STEPS IS: If the child is found accompanied by someone other than a parent or legal guardian, reasonable efforts to delay their departure will be used without putting the child, staff, or visitors at risk.
5. This was a baby. For whatever reason, the security guard had cause to believe that this baby may have been the lost baby.
6. If you lost your baby in a 200,000 square foot store, would you want a woman - who by her own admission was screaming obscenities - walking right out the door with it?
ON THE OTHER HAND
7. How the hell do you lose a damn baby? Seriously. How in the hell do you lose a damn baby? Howler monkeys I understand. They crawl away. Babies? It ain't like they gonna push the crib from 0-60 in 3.5 seconds or anything.
8. Rent-a-cops are dumb. I've never met a smart one. Have you?
9. I am so, so, so sure this could have been handled with more tact and grace.
10. If you have been so wronged, why would you go home and rant on MySpace? why wouldn't you drive to the police station and start filing complaints and talking to lawyers?
Anyway. That's my punditry. No great insight. I just think that all parties involved should have shut up and calmed down. We as a society are all too ready to grab, jerk, howl and yell out that we are being mistreated. And the rent-a-cop was probably a bit too fiesty. But he thought she had snatched a baby. Put yourself in their shoes. Nobody was thinking straight.
The lesson here? The only way to win is not to shop at the House of Wal.
1. Read her MySpace rant here.
2. Read the back and forth at Consumerist here.
I have been away from a computer nearly all of today and not even able to knock out a post on my phone. Now that I can see the furor, this is what I think.
1. We all know what I think of the trash that shops in Wal-Mart. I seriously doubt this went down the way she describes - with a Rent-A-Cop "demanding" she hand over her baby.
2. The Consumerist is being somewhat needlessly sensationalistic. Nobody tried to "steal" a baby. Wal-Mart steals your money. Not your howlers. Believe me. NOBODY there wants your crotch spawn. [disclosure: Consumerist sends a great deal of traffic to Behind the Counter]
3. CODE ADAM is a federal program created and named in memory of 6-year-old Adam Walsh, who was was abducted from a Florida shopping mall in 1981 and later found murdered. There are SPECIFIC steps businesses must follow when a child is reported lost or missing.
4. ONE OF THOSE STEPS IS: If the child is found accompanied by someone other than a parent or legal guardian, reasonable efforts to delay their departure will be used without putting the child, staff, or visitors at risk.
5. This was a baby. For whatever reason, the security guard had cause to believe that this baby may have been the lost baby.
6. If you lost your baby in a 200,000 square foot store, would you want a woman - who by her own admission was screaming obscenities - walking right out the door with it?
ON THE OTHER HAND
7. How the hell do you lose a damn baby? Seriously. How in the hell do you lose a damn baby? Howler monkeys I understand. They crawl away. Babies? It ain't like they gonna push the crib from 0-60 in 3.5 seconds or anything.
8. Rent-a-cops are dumb. I've never met a smart one. Have you?
9. I am so, so, so sure this could have been handled with more tact and grace.
10. If you have been so wronged, why would you go home and rant on MySpace? why wouldn't you drive to the police station and start filing complaints and talking to lawyers?
Anyway. That's my punditry. No great insight. I just think that all parties involved should have shut up and calmed down. We as a society are all too ready to grab, jerk, howl and yell out that we are being mistreated. And the rent-a-cop was probably a bit too fiesty. But he thought she had snatched a baby. Put yourself in their shoes. Nobody was thinking straight.
The lesson here? The only way to win is not to shop at the House of Wal.
Can I get a price check?
This does not really fall under the category of "bad customer." These people were not rude in any way shape, form, type or composition. They just could NOT commnicate.
This falls squarely under the category of "We are a pair of fully functioning adults who have reached the fifth or sixth decade of their life and are completely unable to communicate their needs to anyone not already in possession of the Jim and Sue filter."
*le sigh*
Perfectly normal Midwesterners. Probably on vacation from Michigan or Illinois or Ohio or one of those other flyover states. He's wearing tan khakis and a pullover golf shirt. She's got a pair of navy slacks and an almost-ugly-but-not-quite white and navy print top. Girlfriend. Ann Taylor is Not. Your. Friend. Their stuff makes you look ooooooold. You've still got the figure for The GAP. Heck. You've probably got the cash for Banana Republic. But you're in the Wal-Mart. Old Navy is more your thing then.
Anyway.
"Can you check the price on these?" Which in the lingua franca of my Wal-Mart usually means "this was one price on the shelf and it rang up another price. Fix it. Now."
The aforementioned "these" turns out to be eighteen - 18! - sets of boys & girls shorts & shirts - matched by color. Green & green. Blue & blue. Yellow & yellow. Puce and mauve. Teal and chartreuse. Etecetera & etcetera. In sizes 8, 10 & 12. All on clearance for $1 and $2. Presents for the grandkids. How sweet.
LET'S PAUSE FOR QUICK RECAP. The customers put a bag on the counter and said "Can you check the price on these?" That is all the communication there was. NO MORE, NO LESS.
Their cashier did a very neat job of bagging all the items and even used one of our extra-large bags. All the items were lying in one big flat pile. The wife would fold back a shirt or a pair of pants, I would hit ITEM INQUIRY and scan the tag. Of the eighteen items, 17 rang up exactly what the SALE stickers said. The one that was a mistake, the cashier had voided and did a PRICE OVERRIDE for the correct amount.
I'd scan one, go "That's ringing up at $2. The tag says $2. That one is OK." And we'd move on. We did this for all eighteen of the shirts and shorts.
I tell the woman, "Ma'am. They're all ringing up right. The one that was wrong she fixed. What was the problem?"
She's peering intently at the receipt the whole time. I'm waiting. She looks at the shirts. She looks at the register. She looks at me. She looks at her husband. She gives her husband the recipt. He gives it back to her. She looks at the shirts. She looks at the buggy. She looks at me. She looks at the shirts. She looks at me again. She looks at the register, which has the last ITEM INQUIRY for $2.00 for a cute yellow boys soccer shirt.
So then the woman goes, "Well what is the new total? I don't think the one she gave me was right and I want a new one." She wasn't rude or mean - unlike most of my customers. Just completely clueless.
I'm like "Um. Um." And it really took me a second to get it together. It is not like this is a farmer's market or something where you bargain. I mean, I know this is Florida, we do keep counting until you get the result you want (presidential election, 2000), but this is the House of Wal.
I recover and I'm like "OK. You really needed to tell me that. I can't just "ring stuff up" to give you a "test total." If you want me to re-ring the transaction and see what is different, we can do that. I just need to know. But you've got to tell me how you need me to help you."
This gets a response. "OH." What a novel concept. Communicate!
So I take her pile of clothes and ring it up again. It comes out $2.12 less - which is the price of one set plus tax. I ask her for her original receipt and I look at more closely. Sure enough. There is one one there that got scanned twice.
It happens. The scan plates at the registers are large and very sensitive and the hang tags on clothes have huge barcodes. There has been more than one time when I've had to go run a register (HORROR) that when I've been trying to fold a pair of jeans or a shirt after I've scanned it that i've heard the register go *beep* and scan it again. If you're trying to get the thing in a bag and not paying attention, you could easily miss it. Nobody's fault. No one is trying to cheat you. It just happens. Come run that register for week and you tell me how easy/hard it is to scan and bag.
I explain what happened. They're cool. They get it. I refund the item that got scanned twice. That two dollars and twelve cents was totally worth standing in line for 20 minutes and then doing another fifteen minutes with me while I try to figure out exactly what happened and who made what error where.
Everybody goes home happy. Except me. I'm stuck there for five more hours.
This falls squarely under the category of "We are a pair of fully functioning adults who have reached the fifth or sixth decade of their life and are completely unable to communicate their needs to anyone not already in possession of the Jim and Sue filter."
*le sigh*
Perfectly normal Midwesterners. Probably on vacation from Michigan or Illinois or Ohio or one of those other flyover states. He's wearing tan khakis and a pullover golf shirt. She's got a pair of navy slacks and an almost-ugly-but-not-quite white and navy print top. Girlfriend. Ann Taylor is Not. Your. Friend. Their stuff makes you look ooooooold. You've still got the figure for The GAP. Heck. You've probably got the cash for Banana Republic. But you're in the Wal-Mart. Old Navy is more your thing then.
Anyway.
"Can you check the price on these?" Which in the lingua franca of my Wal-Mart usually means "this was one price on the shelf and it rang up another price. Fix it. Now."
The aforementioned "these" turns out to be eighteen - 18! - sets of boys & girls shorts & shirts - matched by color. Green & green. Blue & blue. Yellow & yellow. Puce and mauve. Teal and chartreuse. Etecetera & etcetera. In sizes 8, 10 & 12. All on clearance for $1 and $2. Presents for the grandkids. How sweet.
LET'S PAUSE FOR QUICK RECAP. The customers put a bag on the counter and said "Can you check the price on these?" That is all the communication there was. NO MORE, NO LESS.
Their cashier did a very neat job of bagging all the items and even used one of our extra-large bags. All the items were lying in one big flat pile. The wife would fold back a shirt or a pair of pants, I would hit ITEM INQUIRY and scan the tag. Of the eighteen items, 17 rang up exactly what the SALE stickers said. The one that was a mistake, the cashier had voided and did a PRICE OVERRIDE for the correct amount.
I'd scan one, go "That's ringing up at $2. The tag says $2. That one is OK." And we'd move on. We did this for all eighteen of the shirts and shorts.
I tell the woman, "Ma'am. They're all ringing up right. The one that was wrong she fixed. What was the problem?"
She's peering intently at the receipt the whole time. I'm waiting. She looks at the shirts. She looks at the register. She looks at me. She looks at her husband. She gives her husband the recipt. He gives it back to her. She looks at the shirts. She looks at the buggy. She looks at me. She looks at the shirts. She looks at me again. She looks at the register, which has the last ITEM INQUIRY for $2.00 for a cute yellow boys soccer shirt.
So then the woman goes, "Well what is the new total? I don't think the one she gave me was right and I want a new one." She wasn't rude or mean - unlike most of my customers. Just completely clueless.
I'm like "Um. Um." And it really took me a second to get it together. It is not like this is a farmer's market or something where you bargain. I mean, I know this is Florida, we do keep counting until you get the result you want (presidential election, 2000), but this is the House of Wal.
I recover and I'm like "OK. You really needed to tell me that. I can't just "ring stuff up" to give you a "test total." If you want me to re-ring the transaction and see what is different, we can do that. I just need to know. But you've got to tell me how you need me to help you."
This gets a response. "OH." What a novel concept. Communicate!
So I take her pile of clothes and ring it up again. It comes out $2.12 less - which is the price of one set plus tax. I ask her for her original receipt and I look at more closely. Sure enough. There is one one there that got scanned twice.
It happens. The scan plates at the registers are large and very sensitive and the hang tags on clothes have huge barcodes. There has been more than one time when I've had to go run a register (HORROR) that when I've been trying to fold a pair of jeans or a shirt after I've scanned it that i've heard the register go *beep* and scan it again. If you're trying to get the thing in a bag and not paying attention, you could easily miss it. Nobody's fault. No one is trying to cheat you. It just happens. Come run that register for week and you tell me how easy/hard it is to scan and bag.
I explain what happened. They're cool. They get it. I refund the item that got scanned twice. That two dollars and twelve cents was totally worth standing in line for 20 minutes and then doing another fifteen minutes with me while I try to figure out exactly what happened and who made what error where.
Everybody goes home happy. Except me. I'm stuck there for five more hours.
Thursday, September 06, 2007
Here kitty kitty
I just don't even know what to say to this one.
A very polite woman pushed a buggy with a gigantic sack full of kitty litter up to Customer Service and said that she would like to return it.
The sack was torn open across the top so I asked her if anything was wrong with it - was the bag wet or did it smell worse than it ought to or something.
Her answer? "I bought the wrong thing." OK. That's cool. Your little furry feline fiend doesn't like the Wal-Mart version of FreshStep. That's fine.
But she continues. "I thought this was cat food."
Head snaps up. Quizzical look. Looks at sack. Decides not to ask "Did the gigantic three inch letters "CAT LITTER" not tip you off that this was - in fact - for cats to use to take a dump?" Or the picture of a cat taking a poo in a pan? Or the fact that it was $5.97?
Given what we know about Wal-Mart's issues with pet food - she might have saved that cat's life though!
Turns out she was from Bolivia. What are they using for kitty litter in Bolivia? More importantly, what are they feeding cats in Bolivia?
Buttons. Return. DEFECTIVE. Please sign here.
Please leave before you buy some diapers and think it is like baby crackers or something.
A very polite woman pushed a buggy with a gigantic sack full of kitty litter up to Customer Service and said that she would like to return it.
The sack was torn open across the top so I asked her if anything was wrong with it - was the bag wet or did it smell worse than it ought to or something.
Her answer? "I bought the wrong thing." OK. That's cool. Your little furry feline fiend doesn't like the Wal-Mart version of FreshStep. That's fine.
But she continues. "I thought this was cat food."
Head snaps up. Quizzical look. Looks at sack. Decides not to ask "Did the gigantic three inch letters "CAT LITTER" not tip you off that this was - in fact - for cats to use to take a dump?" Or the picture of a cat taking a poo in a pan? Or the fact that it was $5.97?
Given what we know about Wal-Mart's issues with pet food - she might have saved that cat's life though!
Turns out she was from Bolivia. What are they using for kitty litter in Bolivia? More importantly, what are they feeding cats in Bolivia?
Buttons. Return. DEFECTIVE. Please sign here.
Please leave before you buy some diapers and think it is like baby crackers or something.
Saturday, September 01, 2007
Random items on Labor Day Saturday
1. In no universe is is fashionable to wear one turquoise Croc and one purple Croc out in public. Mix-and-match is something you do with skirts and blouses - not shoes.
2. School started two (2) week ago. TWO WEEKS AGO. I do regret that we don't have any more school supply lists. No. I can't "just give you one." Ma'am, ma'am. I CANNOT GIVE YOU WHAT I DO NOT HAVE!
3. If the product says "NOT AVAILABLE FOR SITE TO STORE" on walmart.com - coming in to the store and asking me to check walmart.com is going to produce the same result. Pay the shipping or find a friend with a truck.
4. Sir. I understand you were very pleased that you got a great deal on one of those huge flat-panel TVs. However "going home to get a truck" usually means you are going to return with, I don't know - something other than a Lincoln Continental. "But I measured." Maybe so. But this box is still not fitting in that car. And it won't fit in the trunk either. Let's try again.
5. You need to send money. OK. Fill out the paperwork and give it to me. Now is not the time to launch into the story of why your wife's mother in Tennessee needs this money to bail her nephew out of jail. I'm tired. I've been here for nine hours. Your mad oral history skillz is not all that interesting. I'd check into jail for three hots and a cot just to get away from you and any of your relatives too. Please. Just shut up, fill out the form and give me the money.
6. For the love of Klondike Bars - please attach a decent pair of underwear to your rump. A thong is not underwear - especially when your skirt is a decent approximation of a lace doily and is likely a size 2 Girls when you need at least size 6 Ladies. It was a full moon over Miami tonight. Thank Kali you didn't drop your purse or the woman behind you probably would have seen the lights of Sao Paulo twinkling back at her.
7. I do regret that I can't cash your paycheck. However - your lack of banking ability is YOUR problem. Not mine. Demanding that I "TRY IT AGAIN ... AND GET IT RIGHT" is really not going to work. In a similar vein ... if you're 24 and don't know your social security number .....
Don't ask me to hold up the line while you call your mother, your father, your girlfriend and your sister and have them root around in your room, your car and your backpack for your social security card.
It was not fun spending 20 minutes trying to cash your check because you were not sure if the last number was a 5 or a 7 - but you knew it was an odd number. Turns out it was a 6.
8. Happy Labor Day Yawl!
2. School started two (2) week ago. TWO WEEKS AGO. I do regret that we don't have any more school supply lists. No. I can't "just give you one." Ma'am, ma'am. I CANNOT GIVE YOU WHAT I DO NOT HAVE!
3. If the product says "NOT AVAILABLE FOR SITE TO STORE" on walmart.com - coming in to the store and asking me to check walmart.com is going to produce the same result. Pay the shipping or find a friend with a truck.
4. Sir. I understand you were very pleased that you got a great deal on one of those huge flat-panel TVs. However "going home to get a truck" usually means you are going to return with, I don't know - something other than a Lincoln Continental. "But I measured." Maybe so. But this box is still not fitting in that car. And it won't fit in the trunk either. Let's try again.
5. You need to send money. OK. Fill out the paperwork and give it to me. Now is not the time to launch into the story of why your wife's mother in Tennessee needs this money to bail her nephew out of jail. I'm tired. I've been here for nine hours. Your mad oral history skillz is not all that interesting. I'd check into jail for three hots and a cot just to get away from you and any of your relatives too. Please. Just shut up, fill out the form and give me the money.
6. For the love of Klondike Bars - please attach a decent pair of underwear to your rump. A thong is not underwear - especially when your skirt is a decent approximation of a lace doily and is likely a size 2 Girls when you need at least size 6 Ladies. It was a full moon over Miami tonight. Thank Kali you didn't drop your purse or the woman behind you probably would have seen the lights of Sao Paulo twinkling back at her.
7. I do regret that I can't cash your paycheck. However - your lack of banking ability is YOUR problem. Not mine. Demanding that I "TRY IT AGAIN ... AND GET IT RIGHT" is really not going to work. In a similar vein ... if you're 24 and don't know your social security number .....
Don't ask me to hold up the line while you call your mother, your father, your girlfriend and your sister and have them root around in your room, your car and your backpack for your social security card.
It was not fun spending 20 minutes trying to cash your check because you were not sure if the last number was a 5 or a 7 - but you knew it was an odd number. Turns out it was a 6.
8. Happy Labor Day Yawl!
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
A Rug Doctor a day keeps the funk away
Our Rug Doctor rental center used to be back in Layaway. When Layaway closed, it naturally came up to the Service Desk. Cue the fun. It's not like, you know, we don't already have a ton of stuff to do already.
Renting a Rug Doctor out takes more than a few seconds, because you have to fill out paperwork, wait for people to fish out two forms of ID, then go unlock the Rug Doctor, fill out the mileage and serial numbers, get signatures and then ring them out.
When you've got a line of people about to go ballistic because you can't return their crap fast enough, the last thing you want to see is someone lingering around the Rug Doctor rack.
Then there's the questions. We rent them. We don't sell them. Nor do I know or care if you can put dishwashing detergent in the Rug Doctor (for the record, you shouldn't). Regular or Wide Track? Whatever's going to get you done faster.
That one with the sign that says OUT OF ORDER, yeah, it really is broke and we can't rent it to you, even if it is the last one we have. Honest to Cthulu, it's broke. Seriously, it won't work. Not even a little bit. Even if your in-laws are coming and your carpet smells like smoke.
But my all-time favorite question was from a truly clueless man who wanted to know if he could clean his couches with a Rug Doctor. NOT THE ATTACHMENT. The regular Rug Doctor.
HIM: "Can you clean couches with these?" points at Rug Doctor display
ME: "No sir. Water comes out. It's pretty much meant for carpet floors only. There's an upholstery attachment, but they are all rented right now."
HIM: "What if I put my cushions on the floor and ran the machine over them?"
ME: "Are your cushions stuffed with foam or something?"
HIM: "Yeah"
ME: "Then that would get all wet. So would the couch if you tried to clean it."
HIM: "The cushions are kinda flat and hard. Would that help?
ME: "No."
HIM: "Huh. But the couch is really stinky. The people that we got it from smoke a lot."
ME: "Uh, you might try some Febreeze, or carpet cleaner and a good vacuum."
HIM: "Will that work? It stinks like dog crap."
ME: "Uh. I dunno. But Febreeze has all those commercials. You could just get a new couch if it smells that bad."
HIM: "No way. That costs money. What aisle is Febreeze on?"
Points him to Aisle 13. Leaves to go ponder the all the ways in which the preceding few moments were just wrong.
Renting a Rug Doctor out takes more than a few seconds, because you have to fill out paperwork, wait for people to fish out two forms of ID, then go unlock the Rug Doctor, fill out the mileage and serial numbers, get signatures and then ring them out.
When you've got a line of people about to go ballistic because you can't return their crap fast enough, the last thing you want to see is someone lingering around the Rug Doctor rack.
Then there's the questions. We rent them. We don't sell them. Nor do I know or care if you can put dishwashing detergent in the Rug Doctor (for the record, you shouldn't). Regular or Wide Track? Whatever's going to get you done faster.
That one with the sign that says OUT OF ORDER, yeah, it really is broke and we can't rent it to you, even if it is the last one we have. Honest to Cthulu, it's broke. Seriously, it won't work. Not even a little bit. Even if your in-laws are coming and your carpet smells like smoke.
But my all-time favorite question was from a truly clueless man who wanted to know if he could clean his couches with a Rug Doctor. NOT THE ATTACHMENT. The regular Rug Doctor.
HIM: "Can you clean couches with these?" points at Rug Doctor display
ME: "No sir. Water comes out. It's pretty much meant for carpet floors only. There's an upholstery attachment, but they are all rented right now."
HIM: "What if I put my cushions on the floor and ran the machine over them?"
ME: "Are your cushions stuffed with foam or something?"
HIM: "Yeah"
ME: "Then that would get all wet. So would the couch if you tried to clean it."
HIM: "The cushions are kinda flat and hard. Would that help?
ME: "No."
HIM: "Huh. But the couch is really stinky. The people that we got it from smoke a lot."
ME: "Uh, you might try some Febreeze, or carpet cleaner and a good vacuum."
HIM: "Will that work? It stinks like dog crap."
ME: "Uh. I dunno. But Febreeze has all those commercials. You could just get a new couch if it smells that bad."
HIM: "No way. That costs money. What aisle is Febreeze on?"
Points him to Aisle 13. Leaves to go ponder the all the ways in which the preceding few moments were just wrong.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
What do you say?
Parents are always sending their junior league howler monkeys up to Customer Service to get change. Change for the vending machines, change for the rocking horse machine thing, change for the phone, change so the kids can try to get a stuffed animal out of the Claw machine. Whatever.
Usually the parent will wait a few feet away by their buggy while Junior or Seniorita comes up to the counter, smiles a gap-toothed grin and asks for change. Really, I don't mind. I was just hatched once too.
Sometimes the parental units are a bit more protective and accompany the kids - but let them do the talking. Remember that old Bill Cosby routine? Cue the Sunday morning fun.
Tiny little boy dressed in blue shorts and a cute little sailboat shirt. And a little hat. And either dirt or the remains of a chocolate bar around his mouth, on his hands and on his nose. He's not howling, so he's one petit garçon très mignon. He has to crane his neck up to look over the counter. He's got three dollar bills in a grip that would make a wrinkled crone looking for a 10-cent coupon on a package of Dulcolax proud.
"CanIgetthreedollarsinquartersplease?" Yuppie Father smiles indulgently. Aw, how cute. You are teaching your howler monkey to say please.
"OK. Let me get them to open my change drawer." And I get twelve quarters.
I lean over the counter so I can give him the quarters directly.
"One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. That's three dollars. Have fun." He smiles at me. Ah, to be young and free and blessed with what seems to be untold riches.
So Yuppie Father is trying to work on today's lesson on manners - because they're obviously not at church. "What do you say?"
Howler Monkey: "All Right." Big grin.
Yuppie Father rolls eyes at me. I chuckle and give him a "It's your kid, I'm really not offended" look. But Yuppie Father decides to wade in again and goes "No. What do you say when someone does something for you?"
Howler Monkey: "Yeah. Thas right."
Yuppie Father retires in shame because his child knows no manners. At least the howler monkey wasn't howling.
Usually the parent will wait a few feet away by their buggy while Junior or Seniorita comes up to the counter, smiles a gap-toothed grin and asks for change. Really, I don't mind. I was just hatched once too.
Sometimes the parental units are a bit more protective and accompany the kids - but let them do the talking. Remember that old Bill Cosby routine? Cue the Sunday morning fun.
Tiny little boy dressed in blue shorts and a cute little sailboat shirt. And a little hat. And either dirt or the remains of a chocolate bar around his mouth, on his hands and on his nose. He's not howling, so he's one petit garçon très mignon. He has to crane his neck up to look over the counter. He's got three dollar bills in a grip that would make a wrinkled crone looking for a 10-cent coupon on a package of Dulcolax proud.
"CanIgetthreedollarsinquartersplease?" Yuppie Father smiles indulgently. Aw, how cute. You are teaching your howler monkey to say please.
"OK. Let me get them to open my change drawer." And I get twelve quarters.
I lean over the counter so I can give him the quarters directly.
"One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. That's three dollars. Have fun." He smiles at me. Ah, to be young and free and blessed with what seems to be untold riches.
So Yuppie Father is trying to work on today's lesson on manners - because they're obviously not at church. "What do you say?"
Howler Monkey: "All Right." Big grin.
Yuppie Father rolls eyes at me. I chuckle and give him a "It's your kid, I'm really not offended" look. But Yuppie Father decides to wade in again and goes "No. What do you say when someone does something for you?"
Howler Monkey: "Yeah. Thas right."
Yuppie Father retires in shame because his child knows no manners. At least the howler monkey wasn't howling.
Monday, August 20, 2007
So how dis work? The Story of Pink Velour and Pimpalicious
Now, ya'll know I work up in the ghetto Wal-Mart right? Right. Just so we're clear. I see more fake nails, fake purses and fake hair than most drag queens. Woolite girls, it will do wonders for your cheap wigs.
So one ghetto princess rolled through my line Sunday. Cause you know, even skanky hookers take the Sabbath off to shop at the Wal-Mart.
I don't know what they're teaching in the fashion class at Hooker High. I do know that pink Wal-Mart terrycloth knockoffs in the style of Juicy Couture Velour - without the Juicy, and without the Couture, but with an extra helping of the velour - is probably NOT on the approved curriculum. Neither are those cheap Sally Hansen nails you have in your cart. PS: Your weave looks cheap. Is it donkey or horse?
AN-Y-WAY. She was doing an exchange - two shirts for one shirt and two packs of boxers. Obviously, since you're not getting the same things it is not going to come out the same. I know you failed math but I would have thought you at least had the money part down.
She ends up owing me $3.12. And the fun really starts.
"It's more? Why?" And I go through the prices. "Oh. Really?" No. Really.
"Go get my purse," she barks at one of the junior hookers with her - who is waaay to young to be tarted up in cutoff demin shorts, a white tube top and a black velvet jacket that is buttoned almost all the way up to make it look like she doesn't have any pants on.
The junior hooker doesn't come back, so Pink Velour whips out a cell phone and starts calling. "I need three dollars." No. Actually you need $3.12, but I figure she can get that far by herself. "I'se standing up at Customer Service. Just bring to me."
Whoever she is yelling at doesn't respond, so she calls someone else "C'mon. Just bring me some money so I can go. I need to pay for this."
About this time, junior hooker comes back - with a dude I can only assume is their pimp. He is probably not the father. He might be the boyfriend - but he's well past 40 and Pink Velor is about 17. And he looks pissed off.
Great. I've got a 240-pound man wearing a shirt with the sleeves cut off - so the whole world can see his BIG muscles - and with a mouth full of gold teeth, tattoos and missing a chunk of an ear standing up in Customer Service pissed off at his woman. Is that fear I smell or just AXE body spray?
He doesn't talk to me at first, he talks to Pink Velour. "What's going on?" She stammers out that she was exchanging some shirts and now she owes money.
Now I get the full blast of Pimpalicious. "So how dis work?" Big on the English are you?
I print out a SLIP which shows what she returned and what she's buying. I'm like "What she's returning doesn't equal what she's getting. She got a more expensive shirt and the boxers are $5 each where she traded in an $8 shirt."
Pimpalicious understands money. He looks at Pink Velour and grins. "Pay it then."
She pulls four singles out of her pocket where she's had it the whole time. I can tell she doesn't want to use that money though.
He grabs the bag from her as she leaves. I can hear them arguing past Register 12 - at which point the noise is too loud. "I done told you I just wanted some new stuff. Naw girl. Dis how its gonna roll when we got home. Well I don't know why it got to be a thang." And so on...
See, I'm thinking that the money she had in her pocket was his money. And she didn't have the OK to spend his money, which was why she had to send people running around to try to find $3.12. Because there is hell to pay when she spends the pimp's cash. Anyway. That's my night.
So one ghetto princess rolled through my line Sunday. Cause you know, even skanky hookers take the Sabbath off to shop at the Wal-Mart.
I don't know what they're teaching in the fashion class at Hooker High. I do know that pink Wal-Mart terrycloth knockoffs in the style of Juicy Couture Velour - without the Juicy, and without the Couture, but with an extra helping of the velour - is probably NOT on the approved curriculum. Neither are those cheap Sally Hansen nails you have in your cart. PS: Your weave looks cheap. Is it donkey or horse?
AN-Y-WAY. She was doing an exchange - two shirts for one shirt and two packs of boxers. Obviously, since you're not getting the same things it is not going to come out the same. I know you failed math but I would have thought you at least had the money part down.
She ends up owing me $3.12. And the fun really starts.
"It's more? Why?" And I go through the prices. "Oh. Really?" No. Really.
"Go get my purse," she barks at one of the junior hookers with her - who is waaay to young to be tarted up in cutoff demin shorts, a white tube top and a black velvet jacket that is buttoned almost all the way up to make it look like she doesn't have any pants on.
The junior hooker doesn't come back, so Pink Velour whips out a cell phone and starts calling. "I need three dollars." No. Actually you need $3.12, but I figure she can get that far by herself. "I'se standing up at Customer Service. Just bring to me."
Whoever she is yelling at doesn't respond, so she calls someone else "C'mon. Just bring me some money so I can go. I need to pay for this."
About this time, junior hooker comes back - with a dude I can only assume is their pimp. He is probably not the father. He might be the boyfriend - but he's well past 40 and Pink Velor is about 17. And he looks pissed off.
Great. I've got a 240-pound man wearing a shirt with the sleeves cut off - so the whole world can see his BIG muscles - and with a mouth full of gold teeth, tattoos and missing a chunk of an ear standing up in Customer Service pissed off at his woman. Is that fear I smell or just AXE body spray?
He doesn't talk to me at first, he talks to Pink Velour. "What's going on?" She stammers out that she was exchanging some shirts and now she owes money.
Now I get the full blast of Pimpalicious. "So how dis work?" Big on the English are you?
I print out a SLIP which shows what she returned and what she's buying. I'm like "What she's returning doesn't equal what she's getting. She got a more expensive shirt and the boxers are $5 each where she traded in an $8 shirt."
Pimpalicious understands money. He looks at Pink Velour and grins. "Pay it then."
She pulls four singles out of her pocket where she's had it the whole time. I can tell she doesn't want to use that money though.
He grabs the bag from her as she leaves. I can hear them arguing past Register 12 - at which point the noise is too loud. "I done told you I just wanted some new stuff. Naw girl. Dis how its gonna roll when we got home. Well I don't know why it got to be a thang." And so on...
See, I'm thinking that the money she had in her pocket was his money. And she didn't have the OK to spend his money, which was why she had to send people running around to try to find $3.12. Because there is hell to pay when she spends the pimp's cash. Anyway. That's my night.
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