Behind the Counter: old-people

Showing posts with label old-people. Show all posts

Saturday, November 03, 2007

Dirty Old Man: In the style of Behind the Counter

You asked for it … you know you wanted it ... now you got it.

It’s one of the rare Friday nights that I work – because we all know that I can’t get enough of the House of Wal – and I’ve yet to find a man wealthy enough to keep me in the style to which I could become accustomed.

I’m alone at Customer Service – of course – trying not to think about how much my feet hurt. I’m sorting through a cart of returns and cataloguing the stuff that’s been stolen and already hating the fact that Christmas carols are playing on the speakers.

Suddenly Customer Service is mobbed with people. Old people. Young people. WOACAs. Tall people. Short people. Skinny people. Fat people. I think I even saw some Canadians. Not too much in the way of white trash though.

They are obviously all together, because they have the same T-shirt on, but I can’t quite make out the connection. Orange and white T-shirts don’t ring a bell with me for anything other than Tennessee football – and somehow, I don’t think that’s it for this group that is wandering around in the bowels of Florida.

ME: “Can I help ya’ll?”
THEM: “Yeah. We want to return these posts.”
ME: “Fence posts? We don’t sell fence posts.”
THEM: “No. Your stories.” Oh. You mean the ones I wrote? The ones you didn’t write? The ones you didn’t create? The ones you didn’t put out there?
ME: “What’s wrong with them?”
THEM: “We don’t like them.” Cause nobody like nothing they get for free.

ME: “Oh.”
THEM: “Yeah.”
ME: “What specifically was wrong with them?” Other than the fact that no one likes change?
THEM: “Did you really intend to regurgitate this same story all week long, but in a different style each time?” Yep. That’s pretty much what I said I was going to do. Yeah. One story, five times.

ME: Speechless. Realizing at this point that I have never misjudged something so badly in all my life. My first boyfriend. My second girlfriend. Any decision. Ever. In the entire history of time. This ranks right up there with Little Bighorn or the decision to invade Russia in the winter.

THEM: “Well, when we first started reading, you were kinda funny. We liked you then. The first few posts were fine. But the last ones in our RSS reader really sucked. They sucked hard. They sucked like a Lewinsky-bot. We want to return them. We didn’t hardly read them. They have the html tags on them and everything.”
ME: “But see, you did read them. I can’t give you money back on something you already read.” And you read it for free. Didn’t even click on my ads now did you?

THEM: “The posts didn’t look good – especially that Jane Austen mess. And don’t get us started on Gabriel Garcia Marquez and that priestess wench. We want some cash back. Right now.”
ME: “Well, do you got a receipt.”
THEM: “Naw man. We read it online. Books are so like last century.”
ME: “Well, you can’t have cash back without a receipt.”
THEM: “No. That is not acceptable. These posts were NOT ACCEPTABLE. It crashed my browser and I DEMAND MY CASH BACK!”

ME: “Look. Ya'll got them for free. On the Internet. And you don’t have a receipt.” Why are you complaining? If you hated it, wait a week. It changes, like the weather.
THEM: “I demand to speak with an editor immediately.”
ME: “I write it. I edit it. And you’re going to have to deal with it.”
THEM: “I still want a refund. And some free hosting for my trouble.”

ME: “Like I said. It was free. I can’t refund something you got for free.” This isn’t Wal-Mart. I’m not a spineless jellyfish of a manager. You can and will be getting the big N-O as an answer.
THEM: “Do you realize how long I’ve been reading here?”
ME: “And?” I realize you care. You care enough about me to leave hateful troll comments imploring me to stop even though I was clearer than glass about the fact that this was a five-day experiment.

THEM: “If you won’t refund these crappy posts, I’m going to take you off my RSS feed.”
ME: “Thank you for your feedback. Would you like a comment card?” When you’re done, drop them in that round can with the plastic Hefty bag inside. Please. Yes. Do take me off your RSS. If you're reading me on RSS, you’re not giving me ad impressions. And if you really dislike my writing enough to leave me a venomous comment, I’m not so sure I want you around anyway.
THEM: “This is stupid. If you want to keep your readers, stop it.” Don't drink too much of that there haterade now!
ME: “Thank you for your feedback, would you also like a comment card?”

THEM: “But we’re important. We are your readers. We demand to be heard.”
ME: “That’s right. I’m listening. I’ll never do anything like this again.” I SWEAR BY THE MANY ARMS OF SHIVA THAT I WILL NEVER DO ANOTHER TRIBUTE POST AS LONG AS I AM ALIVE. McDonald’s could take a lesson from me. Stick to what you know.

THEM: “I'll be back next week when things have hopefully gotten back to normal.”
ME: “You do that.”
THEM: “So we’re cool then? Can we get back to normal now?”
ME: “I guess so.”
THEM: “Good. But let that be a warning. Don’t stray from the path again.”
ME: “I can't deny the fact that you hate me, right now, you hate me.”

Regular posting resumes Sunday or Monday. And we have another guest post this week. Thank you for all your comments, emails and diatribes. Even if you hated it. ☺

Friday, November 02, 2007

Dirty Old Man: In the style of Hollywood

Thursday, November 01, 2007

Dirty Old Man: In the style of Stephen King

Here's the story: This old man came up to Customer Service. He had a pack of pinochle cards. He wanted regular playing cards. I told him the regular cards were out on Register 15 - about 20 feet away and within sight of Customer Service. His answer? "That's too far to walk." So I had to go get the cards and bring them back to Customer Service for this contrary old fart.

Now, here's the story as if written by Stephen King.
Previously: Jane Austen | Old Testament | Gabriel Garcia Marquez | What's going on

The last thin rays of the feeble winter sunlight shone off the gleaming glass doors of the suburban mega-store. The black asphalt parking lot seemed to stretch on for miles.

George Wilson shuddered, pulled the edges of his leather bomber jacket closer and tried not to think how the thousands of rows of straight lines of painted parking spaces resembled teeth in the mouth of a giant parking lot monster – and how far he was going to have to walk right down the middle of those rows of teeth to reach the doors.

“Nothing to do but start walking,” he thought.

“MISTER, HEY MISTER, LOOK OUT.” George could hear the screaming somewhere behind him. He broke from his reverie and looked back just in time to lunge to the side and avoid a whole line of shopping carts that had broken free of their machine and taken off, as if with a mind of their own, across the lot toward him. CRASH

Someone with a black Honda Accord was going to be very unhappy very soon.

“Hey, are you OK Mister? Them carts get loose sometimes. We tie a rope around them but sometimes it comes loose.”

“I’m fine. I’m fine. I just need to return something.”

“OK then. I’m real sorry Mister.”

George considered his narrow escape, gritted his teeth and continued walking.

Upon reaching the entrance, George was struck by how monolithic the building was, how it dominated the landscape around it, how it seemed to exert an inexorable pull on the shoppers to enter the maw of the sliding doors and spend, spend, spend.

Slide, chop, slide. Slide, chop, slide. Slide, chop, slide. Slide, chop, slide. Slide, chop, slide. George watched in fascination as the automatic doors slid open, then closed. Open. Closed. Three of them side by side by side – like the triple heads of hell hound Cerberus – devouring the livelihoods of all those who dared enter.

“Nothing to do but keep going,” he thought.

Once inside the triple doors, George saw that it was yet a few more yards to the actual entrance, where a blue-smock-clad worker stood guard over the store, murmuring to the oncoming swarm, tagging the people coming in and verifying the paper of the few able to scrape together the cripplingly penurious fees required to exit the mega-store.

It’s like the gullet on a creature from the deepest hells, George thought, you pass through the mouth and slide down right through to the stomach.

CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG. George nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of yet more carts coming into the store. The sound brought to mind the gnashing of teeth, or the grinding of jaws of some inhuman monster of the dark gnawing the bones of the unwary.

“Nothing to do but keep going,” he thought.

George lurches forward, drawing his jacket tighter about him. The blue-smocked worker begins to speak and George decides to strike first, before any destructive spell can be cast. “I JUST WANT TO RETURN THIS.”

The worker looks taken aback, but nods and shoots a sticker from her gun onto the pack of playing cards in George’s hand and points toward the Customer Service counter further down the store.

Taking a deep breath, George steps onto the shiny white tile surface and into the cacophony of aural, visual and olfactory pollution that is a suburban mega-store.

The assault on his senses was deafening in every way.

The bright florescent lights shone down from above, from points perched somewhere in the cavernous ceiling and only slightly less strong beams splashed back up again from below, reflected off the shining white floor.

The noise threatened to deafen him. A thousand beeps from dozens of cash registers. Shrieks from babies, screams from wronged customers, cries of hapless employees and the endless drone of buggies sliding across the floor combined to dull the senses and cloud the mind.

“Nothing to do but keep going,” he thought.

George jerked himself forward with effort, lunging toward the Customer Service counter. It was a predictable chaos. A double wedge of buggies sat like stone gargoyles guarding (or confining, George wondered) a single harried clerk.

There was a rogue’s gallery of customers with a white elephant selection of merchandise waiting for a return. Dead rosebushes. A watermelon. A live chicken.

One of the buggies standing guard reared up on its back two wheels and edged closer to the chicken, causing the crone with the chicken to deliver a hard smack with her staff.

George wondered if he had slipped past sanity into a waking dream. Surely he had not seen a live chicken nearly be devoured by a shopping cart – only to be fought off by a witch.

He shook his head and looked again. There was an old woman in a cornflower-blue pants suit holding a cane and white sweater folded over one arm. George could see that she had craft supplies, likely skeins of wool – in her shopping bag.

The line edged forward. George could hear the clerk talking to customers now. “Return or exchange?” “Sign here. PLEASE HELP ME! DELIVER THIS MESSAGE TO SOMEONE OUT ON THE FLOOR.”

George looked up, but a middle-aged woman returning some shoes was only signing her return receipt. It must be the ventilators causing George to hear things. “That’s it,” George thought. “I bet a place like this has huge air ducts. I’m just hearing the pipes rattling.”

The line inched forward. The man at the counter was arguing about returning a pack of pinochle cards. Although old, he appeared to George’s eyes to be perfectly healthy. He wasn’t in a wheelchair and had obviously walked from the parking lot to the store and into Customer Service without the aid of so much as a cane.

The clerk was becoming visibly frustrated. “Sir, I can’t go out and look for you a new pack of cards just because you want me to. There are many other people in line. It isn’t fair to make them wait because you don’t want to walk thirty feet over to Register 15 to get a new pack.”

The old man was resolute. “I’m not moving. I’m old and I’m tired.”

In his eagerness to hear the unfolding drama, George did not notice store employees adding more carts to the dozens already lining the walls of the Customer Service bay. The harried clerk finally snapped in his argument with the crotchety old man, slapped his hands down on the counter and said, “Look. You’re just going to have to wait. I’ve got to call someone to come help me out. I can’t make all these people wait because you’re old and stupid.”

Inwardly, George cheered. He saw the clerk pick up the telephone to dial for assistance and then saw a look of sheer terror mask the features of the clerk’s face. George turned and saw only three more employees adding yet more carts to the area surrounding Customer Service.

Carts now surrounded customers on all sides. Anyone wanting to return something had to pick their way through shopping buggies with all the care taken by soldiers picking their way through a minefield.

George thought this was rather careless and inconsiderate of the employees, but realized this was a low-wage, low-training dumping ground for the least well able to function of society’s wage slaves. He renewed his resolve never to shop here again after returning the items in his hand.

The line edged forward. A young mother with a toddler in an infant stroller and shopping bags hung off the handles rolled up to the counter. “I’d like to return my daughter, please.”

The harried clerk nodded unhappily.

George recoils in shock and shakes his head sure that he’s heard wrong. He looks again sees only that the woman has taken the child out of its stroller because it is crying and sat it on the counter. She is fishing for something in a shopping bag. “That must be her return,” thought George. “I really need to get my ears checked.”

The child began to howl louder. The screams covered up the sounds of the grinding of wheels as the buggies in the area began to push closer, trying to completely encircle the area around Customer Service.

Customers in the main store area were completely oblivious. SCAN. BAG. SCREAM. THAT RANG UP WRONG. SCAN. BAG. DISCOUNT. COUPON. SCREAM. YOU’RE DOING IT WRONG. SCAN. BAG. SCREAM. YOU SQUASHED MY BREAD. SCAN. BAG. SCREAM. I WANT A MANAGER.

George swept his gaze side to side. The entire Customer Service bay was a mass of buggies. It seemed like half the merchandise of the store was here instead of on the shelves.

Were the buggies edging closer? George didn’t want to believe it, but he didn’t remember that rusty cart with the wonky wheel from five minutes ago. It must be the heat. These big box stores never have good heating systems he told himself.

Up ahead, George could hear the clerk asking “Ma’am, do you have a receipt for this baby?” George dug his finger into ears in an effort to clear a non-existent blockage, desperate to believe that he simply didn’t hear the word “outfit” on the edge of that sentence. The child was starting to calm down now, although the mother seemed to be getting more emotional.

“We just can’t afford it,” George heard her tell the clerk. “We work all day and still can’t afford another one. Can I return the stroller and the diapers too?”

“If you have a receipt,” George heard the clerk say begrudgingly.

George thought to himself, “I hope I’m never that poor that I have to return baby clothes.

“Ma’am. This receipt is from last July. The return period on babies is 15 days. You’ve had little Carrie here for eight months. I’m sorry, but we can’t take her back.”

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU WON’T TAKE HER BACK. I’VE GOT A RECEIPT. SHE’S IN GOOD CONDITION. YOU WILL TAKE HER BACK. I WANT A MANAGER RIGHT NOW.”

The clerk leaned over the counter. “Ma’am. Seriously. You need to calm down. Bad things will happen.”

“I’M NOT GOING TO CALM DOWN. I WANT MY MONEY BACK FOR THIS SHITTY BABY THAT SHITS ALL THE DAMN TIME AND DOESN’T EVEN TALK YET AND YOU’RE GOING TO GIVE IT TO ME.”

George couldn’t believe he was hearing this. He looked straight ahead, transfixed by the scene that was playing out. Then he heard a cluck-cluck. It was a chicken. The old woman in front of him really DID have a chicken.

She was talking to George. “Dearie. Dearie. I say dearie. You need to pay more attention. We need to back up. There’s about to be a scene here. Can’t you see the buggy-horde getting ready to attack? Dearie? You don’t’ look so well.”

The buggy-horde. It was real. It was very real. What was once a pack of purchase conveyances was now a metal mass of grinding wheels and razor-sharp teeth transformed instantly into a living, breathing killing machine.

“But …” George sputtered. “But what about …”

“Come dearie. We’ll go over to the café and have a coffee. The old man and the mother are history. Once they start to make a scene they’re a goner. There’s nothing you can do. Those are the rules of the returns at the House of the Wahl. Satan is a manager. Hitler works in grocery. Now. Can you hold my chicken? I need to clear a path through the buggy-horde.”

Wordlessly George reached out to grab the chicken’s feet. The old woman brandished her cane with the skill of a hockey pro, sweeping a path through the ravenous metal creatures.

Behind him, George began to hear screams. First a loud wail from the mother, then a high, thin scream from the old man with the pinochle cards. The screams continued for a while, then nothing.

The next thing George heard was the tired, oh-so-tired voice of the clerk “Maintenance to Customer Service with a blow torch and a mop. Maintenance to Customer Service with a blow torch and a mop.”

Welcome to the House of the Wahl. Do you have your receipt?

Wednesday, October 31, 2007

Dirty Old Man: In the style of Gabriel Garcia Marquez

Tuesday, October 30, 2007

Dirty Old Man: In the style of the Old Testament

So nobody liked Jane Austen. Seventy-four percent of poll respondents (92 of the 124 voters) hated it. Would it have been any better if I said "In the style of a Harlequin Romance?" Moving on.

Here's the story: This old man came up to Customer Service. He had a pack of pinochle cards. He wanted regular playing cards. I told him the regular cards were out on Register 15 - about 20 feet away and within sight of Customer Service. His answer? "That's too far to walk." So I had to go get the cards and bring them back to Customer Service for this contrary old fart.

Now, here's the story as written in the style of the Old Testament. (what's going on this week)

IN THE BEGINNING ...... Sam Walton saw that Wal-Mart was good. He created the florescent lighting. He created the hard tile floors. He created the Chinese laborers to create the poisonous merchandise. He created the Tire, the Lube and the Express. Finally, he created Man, for without man (and woman), the cash registers could not ring and bring bountiful tithes into the great and glorious temples that were the House of the Wal.

And unto Sam Walton was born Wal-Mart #1.

And Wal-Mart #1 lived for many years and begat Wal-Mart #2.

Wal-Mart was fruitful and multiplied.

Wal-Mart #2903 begat Sam's Club #1, which fed Egypt, Syria and Nubia throughout the lean years of the plague.

Wal-Mart was faithful to the teaching of their lord Sam. Once, during the battle of Piggly-Wiggly, Sam Walton prayed "My lord, I beg of you, lower thine prices so that we may continue to discount yet another day." The Lord of Low Prices complied and the Wal-Mart warriors slaughtered a host of cashiers from the retailer-states of Piggly-Wiggly, Freds and Kmart.

Wal-Mart was fruitful and multiplied.

Wal-Mart #3906 begat the Wal-Mart Supercenter, which in turn begat poisoned meat, shoddy Chinese goods and poor customer service to the masses.

The setting? Jerusalem, specifically a trading post in a marketplace in Old City.

MAN RETURNING CARDS: “And it be told thee, and thou hast heard [of it], and enquired diligently, and, behold, [it be] true, [and] the thing certain, [that] such abomination is wrought in the Wal-Mart.” Deuteronomy 17:14 I NEED HELP

WORKER: "Have all the gifts of healing? do all speak with tongues? do all interpret?" 1 Corinthians 12:30 WHAT DO YOU WANT?

CARD MAN: "I have therefore brought an oblation for the Lord, what every man hath gotten, of jewels of gold, chains, and bracelets, rings, earrings, and tablets, to make an atonement for our souls before the Lord." Numbers 31:50 I GOT SOME STUFF HERE!

WORKER: "Then let him count the years of the sale thereof, and restore the overplus unto the man to whom he sold it; that he may return unto his possession." Leviticus 25:27 DO YOU WANT TO RETURN IT?

CARD MAN: "Behold, I cry out of wrong, but I am not heard: I cry aloud, but [there is] no judgment." Job 19:7 I GOT THE WRONG THING.

WORKER: "Then shalt thou enquire, and make search, and ask diligently; and, behold, [if it be] truth, [and] the thing certain, [that] such abomination is wrought among you;" Deuteronomy 13:14 GO TO REGISTER 15 AND LOOK FOR IT!

CARD MAN: "I beseech thee, O Clerk, remember now how I have walked before thee in truth and with a perfect heart, and have done [that which is] good in thy sight." 2 Kings, 20:3 I DON'T WANT TO GO. I WALKED A LONG WAY. DO IT FOR ME!

WORKER: "And your strength shall be spent in vain: for your land shall not yield her increase, neither shall the trees of the land yield their fruits." Leviticus 26:20 YOU WALKED IN HERE. CAN’T YOU WALK 15 MORE FEET?

CARD MAN: "That the aged men be sober, grave, temperate, sound in faith, in charity, in patience." Letters to Titus 2:2 OLD PEOPLE DESERVE RESPECT

WORKER: "Great men are not [always] wise: neither do the aged understand judgment." Job 32:9 OLD PEOPLE SUCK HARDER

CARD MAN: "And it shall be unto you for a fringe, that ye may look upon it, and remember all the commandments of the Lord, and do them; and that ye seek not after your own heart and your own eyes, after which ye use to go a whoring:" Numbers 15:39 I WANT IT. GO GET IT. NOW. OR I’M GOING TO GET A MANAGER UP IN HERE.

WORKER: "So Moses brought Israel from the Red sea, and they went out into the wilderness of Shur; and they went three days in the wilderness, and found no water." Exodus 15:22 I WALKED 26 STEPS TO REGISTER 15 AND PICKED UP A PACK OF PLAYING CARDS.

CARD MAN: "Therefore I will give thanks unto thee, O Lord, among the heathen, and I will sing praises unto thy name." 2 Samuel 22:50 THAT’S RIGHT. GET IT. GET IT. GET IT. I WILL OFFER INSINCERE THANKS.

WORKER: "But even after that we had suffered before, and were shamefully entreated, as ye know, at Philippi, we were bold in our God to speak unto you the gospel of God with much contention." 1 Thessalonians 2:2 UH HUH. YOU TREAT ME BAD OLD MAN AND IT DON'T MATTER TO YOU!

CARD MAN: "And he stayed yet other seven days; and sent forth the dove; which returned not again unto him any more." Genesis 8:12 IS THAT ALL? I BEEN HERE ALL DAY

WORKER: "And the Lord said unto Moses, Write thou these words: for after the tenor of these words I have made a covenant with thee and with Israel." Exodus 34:27 SIGN THE REFUND SLIP YOU OLD CUSS

CARD MAN: "But bade them farewell, saying, I must by all means keep this feast that cometh in Jerusalem: but I will return again unto you, if God will. And he sailed from Ephesus." Acts 18:21 I’M GOING TO LEAVE NOW.

WORKER: "And if he smite him with an instrument of iron, so that he die, he [is] a murderer: the murderer shall surely be put to death." Numbers 35:15 I FEEL SOME SMITING COMING ON!

Much credit goes to biblelookup.com. Your source for verses on the go!

Yesterday's post, the much-maligned Jane Austen.

Monday, October 29, 2007

Dirty Old Man: In the style of Jane Austen

Wednesday, October 10, 2007

Dead, dead vines

I usually try to make little jokes with my customers - especially the ones who bring back returns in bags from other stores - especially Target. I'll usually say something like "I'm sorry, we don't accept returns in Target bags," or "that's 20% off because it's in a Target bag." Same thing goes for Publix, GAP, etc.

Some old battle-axes you just know you should never try this with. Just like Sunday's bundle of fun.

She's tipping the scales at a whopping 105 pounds. The outfit is what I can only describe as Tropical Gardening Granny. Light seafoam green pants, with a blue and green striped pullover. And a straw hat tucked into a straw bag. At least it wasn't chintz! So help me Osiris I was looking for gloves and a spade. Don't forget the scowl.

And she's lugging a pair of GIGANTIC Saks Fifth Avenue bags with two dead rose-bushes jammed in each one. *oh this is going to be so much fun*

Before I can stop her, she give a heave that would have done Hercules proud and clunks one of the bags up on the counter. Dirt, dead leaves and the occasional thorn go flying. "Ma'am, it's OK. Please leave the other one on the floor!"

ME: "Can I help you ma'am?"
ROSE LADY: "These died." Well, obviously.
ME: "OK. Do you have a receipt?" Because you know she does. Gardening Grannies save everything. My own grandmother saves the bags that bread comes in. And the twist ties.
ROSE LADY: "Right here."

THE RECEIPT IS FROM DECEMBER OF 2006. DECEMBER 16, 2006.

ME: "You bought these roses last December?"
ROSE LADY: "That's right."
ME: "So what happened to them."
ROSE LADY: "I planted them and they were fine and then they died."
ME: "Uh-huh."
ROSE LADY: "Well. I want to return them."

That's right. You want to return them 296 days after Wal-Mart sold them into a life of slavery in a hot greenhouse where Gardening Grannies such as yourself dole out water and fertilizer in controlled measured doses at appointed times. Can't you hear them screaming for sustenance? You also denied those poor roses the warmth of the sun, the gentle caress of the rain, the soft, silvery feel of the moonlight air - all the while force-propagating them to yield larger, ever-larger blossoms. Then, once they've offered up their delicate blooms in a bid to please their slavish masters - you perform wholesale amputations, thus separating mother from child. Or else you ripped out the delicate petals in a form of torture worse than any known to man and gobbled them up in a delicious Quail with Rose Petal Sauce.

ME: "You've had them since December and now you want to return them?"
ROSE LADY: "What's the problem? I have a receipt."
ME: "It's not a problem. We return live - or dead - plants for a year. I was just wondering what happened to them."
ROSE LADY: "They didn't grow."
ME: "O-kaay."

Part of me is wondering if those were some unrelated rose bushes that had never been purchased at Wal-Mart.

Whatever. Buttons mashed. Credit issued. Papers signed. Gardening granny gone.

I am seriously starting to wonder if I am cut out to deal with this mess.

Monday, September 17, 2007

Something's rotten in the House of Wal

In my time of service to the House of Wal, I have been called on to do all sorts of demeaning things that I would otherwise turn my saucy and aristocratic Roman nose up at.

I have cleaned up baby puke, big people puke, baby crap, big people crap, picked up a dirty pair of jeans with human feces all over them, swept up dog food, gathered grocery carts in 98 degree heat, repeatedly handled raw meat and vegetables for hours at a time and listened to some of the most insane and horrible human beings Kali ever put on this planet. Anyway. That's not the point.

What I was called upon to do Sunday put all other things to shame. I have taken back some sketchy returns in my day. The empty cans of Diet Coke spring to mind!

This one tops that. By far and away. Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman doing bad Irish accents "Far and Way."

OK. This older man comes up. He's a health-conscious hippie with his little black biker shorts and form-fitting white top. He's even got a fanny pack with a water bottle attachment. Was probably a Deadhead and a Phish Head and a fan of the Beatles for good measure. FROM THE FANNY PACK, he pulls what turns out to be two pairs of dress socks. One argyle, one gray.

Said dress socks have been around the block more times than the mailman, the school bus, the garbage truck and your cousin Vanessa put together. There are even pills on them. Enough pills to fill a prescription.

And the odor. Lord. The odor. Limburger cheese. Unwashed feet. Halitosis. Baby poo. Britney at the VMAs. Compassionate conservatism. Rank I say. I. HAVE. NO. MORE. WORDS.

"I wanna return these. They just didn't work out for me." AND HE PULLS OUT A RECEIPT.

Do not sigh. Do not roll eyes. Do not sigh. DO NOT ROLL EYES. DO NOT SIGH. It's like a mantra. I'm trying to find my happy place. Lord, it was soooo hard too.

Look at the socks. Look at him. Look at the socks. Look at him. Look at the receipt. Look at him. Look at the socks. Look at the receipt again. Do internal math. "Is this worth a knock-down drag-out fight for $2.97 apiece for? No. OK. Give the stupid man a refund before I keel over from the fumes."

And the worst part was I had to touch the filthy things to put a defective tag on both pairs. I thought about making a scene and getting out the biohazard kit, some glove and maybe a pair of tongs, but decided it wasn't worth it.

BUTTONS. MASH. DEFECTIVE. DEFECTIVE. $6.30. Yes, a grand total of $6.30 for two ancient pairs of socks. You too can get rich by scamming the Wal-Mart two pairs of socks at a time. SIGN HERE. HAVE A NICE DAY PLEASE LEAVE NOW.

*wipes counter down with disenfectant* *hunts for antibacterial hand stuff*

Wednesday, August 29, 2007

A bicycle built for two (years)

Old people suck. Let me just throw that one out there right now. It bears repeating. Old people suck. They suck their teeth. They suck mints. They suck straws too loudly in restaurants and they certainly - now, forever and beyond the end of time - as long as B-Rit and K-Fed be fighting over the howlers - suck as customers.

You know what old man? You made a conscious decision to buy a bicycle from the Wal-Mart. Now, in whatever Yankee state you're from, the Wal-Mart might have better merchandise. I seriously doubt this, as it is all made in China anyway. If you want a better bicycle, go somewhere else and buy one.

However, you are seriously deluded if you honestly and truly believe that you are going to roll that rusted, beat-up, clangy specimen into Customer Service, present us with a receipt from November 21, 2006 and demand an exchange "because the brakes went out."

Sir. The bicycle is 278 days old. TWO HUNDRED AND SEVENTY-EIGHT DAYS OLD. There are managers up in this store that have not been in the state that long. Heck. Some of them haven't been managers that long.

Never mind our "We don't return bikes" rule. We don't return much of anything after 90 days.

You have ridden this bike into the ground. Into. The. Ground.

The chain is rusted nearly through. The handlebars are rusted. The pedals are so worn there is no tread left. The paint is flaking. You have either left it outside or ridden it many miles. It looks like my Grandma's Chevy Nova after 15 years of carrying her back and forth to work at the pants factory.

The nice manager offered to fix your bicycle. Free of charge even. That was not good enough for you. You want a brand new bicycle. Because you are a classic case of old people entitlement suck. I hope you lose your teeth tomorrow morning.

The chain of events the denial of your exchange touches off - complete with the rationalizations from you sir - who proudly informs everyone around that "you were a veteran" - is just unbelievable.

Here is the complete catalog of your reasons why we should let you exchange this bicycle - WHICH WE ALREADY EXCHANGED FOR YOU ONCE IN NOVEMBER - I know this because you are waving around an exchange receipt.

You never rode it. Ahem. St. Peter, prepare the lightnings.
You just want to exchange it.
You never left it outside. Step back. Lightning strikes reported in area five. The weather today? Charred, with a slight hint of cripsy old fart in the air. Tomorrow should bring rain with a dusting of Metamucil drizzle in the afternoon.
You're 72 years old. The manager goes "I'm 52. What does that have to do with anything?" Indeed.
The chain is bad. Well, after 278 days, you need at least minimal maintenance. Don't you put oil in the Caddy?
You think we ought to stand behind our product.
You don't want this bike repaired. Because this bike was junk. But you said you never rode it?
You just want to exchange it. But you waited 39 weeks to exchange it?
The seat is uncomfortable. But I thought you never rode it?
Other Wal-Marts are always more accommodating to seniors. We got ride-along carts? What else you want? A euthanasia booth? I'll vote for that.
Other stores are always more respectful of their customers. Other stores need the customers. Wal-Mart don't care.
The Wal-Mart "back home" never gives you this much trouble. Fine. Go back to a flyover state. Leave us alone and go bother some other Customer Service counter!
You just want to exchange it.
You can't believe that we don't believe you when you say you never left it outside. Satan, we got one for you. Express delivery. Crispy on the outside. Black as sin on the inside.
You're going to take your business elsewhere. Please do. No business needs customers like you.

But yes, in the end, management rolled over and let him exchange it. Another $89.94 "rental" right straight out the door. I'm sure we'll see that one come back again some time this spring after another six to nine months of hard use.

You know what? Old people suck.

Monday, August 06, 2007

Who's on first, old lady on second

I seem to be a magnet for old people with attitudes. They really all need to start eating more fiber, knock back some Metamucil and snack on some Fig Newtons. That way they can deposit their crap in the toilet instead of dumping it on me. When I'm old, I don't plan to be shopping at Wal-Mart. If I am, give me the Nicolae Ceauscescu treatment. Seriously. I'm not kidding.

So I'm trying to make headway on the 17 carts of reshops (things left at the registers and around the store) that magically show up at Customer Service when an old woman on one of those Wal-Mart electric carts comes blasting through. She's going hell for leather and just when I think she's going to slam into the counter, she hits the stop button and executes a turn to bring her exactly in front of my register. She's obviously got experience on these things.

Before I can even greet her, she yells out "YOU KNOW WHAT?"

She looks the type to enjoy a joke - she's driving the scooter like a Ferrari - so I answer "I don't know what, but I might know who." She cackles like a Shakespearean witch. And then resumes the loud old-person-my-hearing-is-gone yelling.

Her problem? The glass cleaner she bought was on the shelf for $2.64 and it rang up at $2.94.

"THAT'S RIGHT $2.94. AND IT WAS ON SALE FOR $2.64. RIGHT THERE ON THE SHELF."

So let me tell you, she wanted to know what I was going to do about it.

At the top of her lungs she wanted to know what I was going to do about it. The whole time she's camped out at my register she never got below a dull roar. Think freeway traffic about 5 p.m..

Fine. You'll get it for free. "Ma'am, you'll get the item for free because of our pricing policy."

Which is apparently Old Lady-ese for "tell me about your life."

While I'm mashing buttons, she's babbling like a brook. Or a Valley Girl named Brooke. Either one. As long as it made a lot of noises and not much sense.

"I only wanted it if it was on sale. I love sales."
"My daughter doesn't like that brand, but I do. So I make her clean with it."
"I always come to Wal-Mart. My daughter doesn't like it but I do. Things are so cheap here."
"It's hot outside. It's hot in here too. They should do something."
"You look tired. What time do you get off?"
"We're going to McDonald's after this. My granddaughter wants and ice cream. You should go get an ice cream. Don't you get breaks?"
"My hip is messed up and I can't walk good." But by Kali, you sure as hell can talk.

I hit TOTAL CASH TOTAL and give her money.

She signs the return slip, backs into buggy filled with housewares, then zips out of my life, calling "I hope your day gets better" over her shoulder.

All in all, not nearly as bad as it could have been, but way too much drama over thirty cents.

Sunday, July 29, 2007

Did you flush your brains too?

Seriously lady? I'm not trying to be rude to you, but you make a slab of concrete look like a Mensa scholar.

You want to return a toilet seat using a receipt from January 21st of 2006? Seriously? That's 554 days ago. 79 weeks. 13,296 hours. 47,865,600 seconds. Most of which you apparently spent in a state of blissful oblivion drinking clamato and playing canasta.

I don't care that you're "remodeling." It took you 18 months to pick out a toilet seat? What are you remodeling? The Pentagon? Did that toilet seat cost $400?

I don't care that you're not "down here" that often. Thank Shiva you're not! You could have returned it at whatever Yankee Wal-Mart is unfortunate enough to get your patronage. Or your truly unfortunate contractor could have. You didn't even buy it at this store. Not that that would make a difference, but at least I can tell you to go try to peddle your sob story at the Wal-Mart across town.

No. That 90-day rule isn't "a new thing." That sign has been there since this store opened. Identical ones hang in the Customer Service counters of pretty much every other Wal-Mart in the United States.

No, leaning real close to me, breathing that old-lady liver-and-onions breath and saying "Well, they've never denied me before" isn't helping. I am the person you are dealing with now. Right now. Not yesterday. Not "before" in this magical land of make-believe. You obviously need to hear the word "NO" more often. Plus a good hard smack across the face.

Seriously. Since January 21, 2006 - you have not once stepped foot inside a Wal-Mart? Not once? I should have returned it as a reward for her being able to hold out against the siren song of the "always low prices."

Friday, June 29, 2007

Dear Food Stamp Lady

Hi. Yes, you remind me a lot of my grandmother. And all the sweet precious old ladies who worked at the cafeteria where I went to elementary school. But really? Somebody need to mail you a clue.

Yes, I know it is a tragedy that you didn't get your $1.37 bottle of Lipton Iced Tea that you said you paid for. Yes, I'm sorry for giving you an "I don't quite believe you look." Old lady scammers are the oldest game in the book. Even for $1.37.

You see ma'am, these bottles of tea are sold in the coolers right next to the checkouts. So the journey from cooler to checkout was about 10 feet. Most people grab a tea and then drink it on the way out. I still don't understand how you managed to "loose" a bottle of iced tea in six minutes.

Also, you paid for the tea using your EBT card (Food Stamps). So you see, if you want a refund, I can't give you cash. Right here, this was your opportunity to say "Can I go get another tea?" I also explained "Ma'am, because you used EBT, I have to put this back on your EBT card." Again, the phrase "back on the card" should have tripped something in that bird-figurine-collecting brain and made you utter something about your wants/needs/intentions.

So I do your refund. I thank you and hand your card back. "Where's my money?" is not generally a socially acceptable response. Especially as we went through this already about how you weren't going to get cash.

Another thing. Picking right now -- when I've finished the transaction and hand you the refund slip to sign -- to tell me "I just wanted another tea" is a bad plan. Really. This is what you should have started the conversation with. Do you really need all that cat food too?

I don't have a crystal ball. I am not possessing of the mind-reader skills. And I sure can't divine what tiny old women in black shawls and orthopedic shoes want when they thrust a bony hand and a receipt into my face and then don't say three words for the next four minutes. Do you really need all that cat food too?

Really. Old people. They talk too much when you don't want them to and won't speak when you need background music.

Tuesday, June 05, 2007

Alarming circumstances

I had an over-accessorized and over-colorized old lady return an alarm clock this weekend. She obviously never got the Coco Chanel memo "Take one thing before you leave the house." That, and that not EVERYTHING on the body needs to be the same color.

Imagine, if you will, an old woman, pushing 70, wearing a solid red dress, with red heels, a red chunky bracelet, a red chunky wooden neck chain thing, a red hair band (in some frightfully bad blonde hair, seriously, conditioner is your friend!) and red lipstick and red nail polish.

Some idiot mall makeup counter girl or some crazy Mary Kay woman who preys on the elderly must have said "Oh, you look good in red" and boy, she took that to the last possible extreme. She looked like a hooker - a sad, old nursing home hooker. At least the skirt was of a decent length.

Anyway. She wanted to return this alarm clock.

She rolls the cart up and clunks the bag with the clock and the receipt on the counter. I take in the gigantic poppy field explosion of red and find the clock on the receipt.

I start the return and get to the part where I can print out a defective slip or not. I ask her "Is anything wrong with it?"

She just sort of looks at me with big cow eyes. I notice she's got costume jewelry with red moonstones on too. And a watch with a red bezel. Wow, that's a lot of red. I wonder if she's a red hat lady? Don't they wear purple though?

Old people are hard of hearing. I raise my voice. "Ma'am, is anything wrong with it."

That's gets a response. But not much of one. "What?"

I see the problem. I lean over and try to get directly into her ear. "IS ANYTHING WRONG WITH THE CLOCK?"

She starts nodding frantically and then proves she's a deaf as a post. She practically brings down the house and yells out "IT AIN'T LOUD ENOUGH. I CAN'T HEAR NOTHING FROM THAT ALARM. I'M GOING TO GET ME A LOUD ONE."

Seriously. Good luck with that. I think she's going to need a tilting bed or something.

Wednesday, May 23, 2007

Help the aged

Old people just love to play the sympathy card. Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn. I don't care that your joints hurt, that those pills are too big to swallow (yes - that was a real excuse for returning something), that the pills gave you gas, that you didn't want the one with caffeine, that you can't have anything with sugar or that you simply MUST have your prescription now. If you really want some good service - go to the Publix.

And then there's the old people that don't really have anything wrong with them - they just try to trade on the fact that they're old and want you to think - "Ohhhh. Cuddly old person. Like Granny or Pappy. Let me help them out because maybe I'll be old one day and be forced to shop at Wal-Mart and try to stretch my tiny Social Security check." Yeah. Old people scammers. Sharp as tacks. And now appearing at Wal-Marts everywhere.

So this old dude totters up Saturday. He's dressed in what I think of as Nursing Home Modern. Those horrible flat-front pale-blue shorts that old men LOVE. A fairly generic tan and white pullover polo shirt, fake black leather loafers and white calf socks. He obviously has access to sun, because he's not pale, but he's not exactly the specimen of health. And he's totally working the Captain Picard hairdo. He's just got unfortunate liver spot issues on his head.

Anyway. He's got a Walgreens bag with five things of ink cartridges.

**Sigh** These ink cartridge things are like an engraved invitation to steal - because they are like $28 bucks a pop and they're not locked up anymore because it is apparently too much of a "hassle" to find someone to unlock the case whenever a customer wants one.

Anyway. His story is that his printer "died" and he doesn't need these anymore. Did you not get a new printer? Are you printing in blood now? I'm wish I had free rein to logic-chop with the idiots who return stuff.

One ink cartridge package turns out to be from Target. We argue about that until I point out the Target bullseye on the side. He shuts up.

The total refund on the other four packages comes out to more than $130. I inform him of the policy of it being store credit and he goes "Can I get that in cash? My check isn't coming until the end of the month." And I care that you're bad with your money because?

"No sir, I can't. I can give them back to you, and you can look for the receipt. But right now, you can only get store credit."

"Are you sure you can't give me cash?" No. I only said that before because I don't know how to do my job. Plus, I really like standing here arguing with you.

"I'm very sure sir. For returns without a receipt, we issue our customers store credit."

"That's not acceptable. Get a manager."

WTF? "Not acceptable?" What's not acceptable is you asking for cash on something you probably stole. And looking at me like I served you a dead rat on a silver tray or something. "This return is not acceptable. Go into zee kitchen and brink me some cash."

So a manager comes over and sizes up the situation real quick. Now, they tend to be softies about taking back merchandise. But nobody - and I mean nobody - gives out cash for stuff without a receipt. Word will get out real quick and we'd have a worse theft problem than we do now!

So the assistant manager tells the man "Sir, that's all I can do. You can take a store credit, or you can take the merchandise home and look for the receipt."

And the old man goes "Now you look here. You don't want to take my checks. You can look in that computer and it will tell you that you don't want to take my checks. Now why don't you want to give me money."

"Sir, that's what we can do. Store credit. Now, what would you like to do?"

"Well I guess I'll return them then."

Well all right then. I wonder why we don't want to give you any money? I bet the old man bounces checks to. Or maybe he steals to support his check bouncing habit. I'll be real sad if he steals to pay for his medication. Aren't there programs for that?

Monday, May 21, 2007

So that's where you keep your receipts

I love older women - the ones fighting tooth and nail to catch the last few rays of the sun of youth - even though clouds covered that garden long ago. Long, long ago. So when I get this one particular old bird Saturday night, I know I'm in for a fun ride.

This old bird is well seasoned. Well seasoned and tenderized - but she's working every bit of what she's got. Cut off blue-jeans that would be scandalous on women four decades younger sit atop some chicken legs - tan chicken legs - but chicken legs nonetheless. She's got a spaghetti strap yellow mini-tank that is at least a size too small and seems designed to display her still-firm (either by surgeon's knife or nature's grace) assets.

The hair - I've got to say - is rocking. Think Cassandra Peterson - except really white blonde and only shoulder-length. And she's knocking about in white boots. Why I don't know. I wish I did.

Age is clearly a state of mind to this woman - and while her sartorial choices could be debated -- she's clearly having a good time at this stage of her life. She's about to spread the humor.

She got the twin to the spaghetti strap tee she's wearing - only in blue - and she doesn't want it. She set the bag on the counter and I ask her if she has her receipt.

She tells me it is in the bag. I look and it is not there. I ask her if it is in her pockets. Not that there's room for anything in those pockets.

"I just had it. I was looking at it in the car."

I ask her "Did you take it out at the door when they put the sticker on the shirt?"

She says no - and then goes "Maybe I put it in here."

HERE turns out to be the First National Bank of the C Cup.

Right there. Right in front of me. RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME, Shiva and about ten other people. She starts digging around in her freaking front end. She knocks aside a cross and a gold necklace and starts feeling around between her breasts. I'm just transfixed. I didn't know whether to stare or to look away. She pulls up a wad of cash and starts looking through it for a receipt.

At this point, I seriously started to consider - what the hell do I do if she actually FINDS the receipt? Really. Breast sweat? That's going above and beyond the call of duty. Especially for Wal-Mart.

She never found the receipt. Thank you Shiva. I asked for her drivers license - which thankfully she kept in her purse - and she bounced out with a shopping card.

Saturday, May 05, 2007

Makeup your mind

I've decided that old ladies are a separate species. Especially the ones that live south of the Georgia and Alabama borders. Or south of Orlando. There's something about sand and sun that pickles the mind.

This absolutely charming old dear came up to Customer Service today with one of those $4.97 Cover Girl compacts. She said she didn't like the color and wanted to go look for something new. Fine. I don't understand why people have to actually take the makeup home, use it until it is half gone and ONLY THEN discover it is "not their shade" - but hey, "it's Wal-Mart, we take anything back."

She doesn't want a gift card, she actually wants to go out, find a new shade and do an exchange. So I shove the bag under my register and tell her to go get the new one and come back. She trots off in her little seafoam and aqua pants set, complete with a nice pair of chunky white sandals and some kind of aqua-greeny-bluey rock necklace that actually clashed with the tasteful gold cross. And don't forget that old lady staple - the gigantic straw tote bag.

So she goes off. She pops back in an hour later excited at finding the new "perfect" shade. I start doing her return and now she decides to compare the old to the new to see how much darker the new shade is. Does anyone else see where this is going?

I'm doing the return and she asks me "Does this look darker?" I look and she's got the EXACT same Cover Girl compact. Same Cover Girl product number and same UPC number. I'm like "Ummm, this is the same."

"Are you sure? This one looks darker. I'm sure it is darker. I like this one anyway."

"Well, see this product number, it's the same. So is the UPC number. How about I just give you the cash back and you go pick out a new compact?"

She nods and grins and I sigh and mash a few buttons. Such is life.

Friday, May 04, 2007

We're renting again

Customes seem to have no compunction about flopping a bag full of something nasty up on the counter - be it stinky meat, spoiled milk, an exploded can of children's play goo called Floam or any other sort of disaster.

I even got a toilet plunger that "wouldn't go" once. Of course, the lovely specimen returning said big plastic purple plunger waited until AFTER I picked it up to tell me that the plunger she slung on the counter "wouldn't go."

To this day, I still don't understand the mechanics involved in a toilet plunger not working. The wooden ones can sometimes break, but the plastic ones are all one piece. How is mechanical failure an option? So is it user stupidity by default?

But I digress. The point of all this is nasty things. And I added a new one to the list this week. USED RAT TRAPS.

On my dead grandfather's grave, I kid you not. This chirpy woman in a bright yellow pantsuit and in possession of a Connecticut drivers license returned a box of rat traps, a box of glue strips and an oversize rat trap that still had cheese crumbs on it. I'll take "Snowbirds Cleaning Out the Closet" for $200 Alex!

Sure enough. She set the bag down on the counter, I opened it up and went, "EWWWW." And then she yanked out a receipt dated September 6, 2006. Five will get you ten that's the day after she got to Florida from Bridgeport - or wherever she's from. Sum total of the receipt? Two dollars and six cents. Her gas going back and forth to the Wal-Mart probably cost more than that.

I didn't even argue over the 90 days policy. I just politely asked for her license; she forked it over, I refunded the rat traps, gave her the $2.06 and she left Customer Service with a smile on her face and No-Receipt Return. I'll bet she voted for that tool Lieberman in 2006 too.

Wal-Mart, always low prices on the items you rent the most!

Thursday, May 03, 2007

Iced quesadillas con abuelita

Given my erm, "delight" at the joys of working with old people, I'm still not clear why I decided to move to a state commonly noted as "God's Waiting Room," nor to specifically choose and area with occasional old people scattered about like an aberrant Johnny Appleseed went about sowing the seeds of senility.

But I digress.

This lovely, bright, chirpy old bird rolls in Sunday afternoon during the after-church crush with a tied-off Wal-Mart bag. Tied-off bags generally don't mean good news - stinky cheese, rotten meat, something nasty.

She starts trying to untie the bag but her arthritis kicks in and I'm like "You want me to cut it open?" I always ask so they move their hands and I don't lop of a gnarled digit. Old people always want to "help" by holding something. I drilled a woman once with a staple and was totally unapologetic. "Ma'am, you did insist on holding the receipts."

As I'm cutting, I realize the bag is COLD. Sure enough, I cut it open and she's got two gigantic one-gallon Ziploc bags rubberbanded around a package of Tyson Chicken Quesadillas.

"Umm. Did you want to return these?"

"I do. My friend Louise bought these for me and I don't want them. You can put them right back on the shelf. They're still cold. I just got out of the car."

"I appreciate the effort ma'am, but we can't re-stock food that has left the store. It is a FDA rule because we can't guarantee to our customers that that food is safe to eat."

"But this chicken is still cold."

"All right ma'am. Do you have the receipt?" And sure enough, she must have wrangled it out of this mythical "Louise." $5.98 for perfectly good frozen chicken quesadillas.

I'm giving her the money and then I ask "Do you want to take your Ziploc bags and ice back? The bags are expensive - and she brought the real Ziploc ones, not the cheap knock-offs.

"Can you just empty it in the bucket?" Bucket? What bucket? Do you see a bucket? What Yankee state are you from that you call a trash can a bucket?

"Ma'am, I can throw it away, but I really don't have anywhere to dump two gallons of ice and water back here."

"Oh, OK, just throw it away then."

Old people.