Man Who Awkwardly Buys Playboy

When someone slides the newest issue of Playboy across the counter, it can be slightly uncomfortable.

Do you try to make small talk, as you should in customer service? Hey, so, nice magazine? Look at the body on that blondie? No.

It is the responsibility of both the cashier and the customer to make the purchasing process as minimally awkward as possible.

The customer usually fails.

True life example:

A middle-aged male buys the June Issue of Playboy. He comfortably sets it down on the counter. The comfort stops there.

The best solution is for the customer to ignore the product, as if he had plopped a wholesome cartoon book next to the scanner. But let’s remember the #1 fact about customer service: customers are stupid, and they rarely choose the best solution.

Now, what is the worst possible thing to say in this situation? (a.k.a. what shouldn’t a middle-aged man buying a Playboy at student stores say to a 20-year-old cashier?) How about:

“You can call me perverted, whatever you want. Gotta do what you gotta do.”

……….

……………….

……………………….

Excuse me?

What did you just say?

Let’s rewind that and listen again.

“You can call me perverted, whatever you want. Gotta do what you gotta do.”

Holy crap, middle-aged man. You just turned what could have been a mildly uncomfortable purchasing situation into a conversation that makes my skin crawl. Not to mention, saying “Do you want a bag for that?” takes on a different meaning, as in “would you like to hide your perversion?”

Golden rule in life: If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say it at all.

Golden rule for customers: If you have something stupid, awkward, or weird to say, do the cashier a favor and chew some gum instead of talking.

Gross Money

Cash money is already one of the most germ-infested things on earth. The same money that you have in your pocket could have not so long ago belonged to a man who uses his left hand to wipe his butt.

Some customers, it seems, take great joy in ensuring that their money is as disgusting as possible before they slide it across the counter.

Take the following scenarios that are, unfortunately, not hypothetical.

– Runners, sweating profusely from a jog in the sweltering heat (why do people do that?), often hand me soaking wet cash pulled out from their shoes. It’s not personal, but I don’t want your foot sweat on my palms, dripping through my fingers. It really makes me think twice about picking up a sandwich later in the day, even after countless applications of hand sanitizer.

– Men, who do not appear to be sweating, often reach into their front pant’s pocket for a few dollars. In approximately 1 out of every 10 customers, this money is damp. What is the dampness, exactly? Let that sink in for a minute.

– Sickly customers make sure to hack all over their bills and credit cards before handing them to a cashier. As if the money wasn’t dirty enough before they coated it with the flu. And thanks for leaning across the counters in my general direction to spew your contaminated spittle.

– Other customers are fundamentally unaware that money is DIRTY. While searching through their bag for a stray nickel, many a customer holds their cash in their mouth. This is the worst type of customer. Not only are they harming themselves, but they are also disgusting me. Do you think I want to touch a bill that you slobbered all over? You are just not that special.

Call me a germaphobe, but cash is gross. And sometimes, so are customers.

Drunk Customers

Alcoholic beverage consumption is a popular pastime on many college campuses. After knocking a few back, most students spend the night at a party, a club, or a bar.

Others – the more “creative” of the bunch – go to student stores. Completely wasted. In the early hours of the day.

Drunk customers are the highlight of my long days, providing a circus-like entertainment. Look at the great intoxicated man as he struggles to buy his Pop Tarts!

In my observation, there are 3 types of drunk customers.

1. Those who specifically say “I’m drunk,” as if the wafting smell of vodka wasn’t enough to confirm their intoxication. This species of customer is usually chatty, giggly and unnecessarily loud.

2. Those who try to hide their drunkenness. This type of customer is sheepish and nearly silent. Some, it seems, are even embarrassed to be drunk. (One has to wonder: if public drunkenness embarrass you, then why are you drunk in public??)

3. Those who fall into neither of the above categories but rather stagger around the store and utter complete nonsense. They are my favorite.

Example of type 3: At 10 AM, a clearly inebriated man enters the store, only to walk two feet before tripping on one of our rubber floor mats. Confused, he gathers himself. The plastered man, who is now mysteriously winded, reaches for a Snickers. He misses. Fail. Try two, he is successful. Way to go, drunk man. Way to go.

Tossing the candy bar on the counter, he opens his wallet and hands me a dollar. Drunky then turns to look out the window, where a long line has formed in front of the campus dining halls. He asks, “What’s the deal with the line?” At least, that’s what I think he asked, judging strictly from his general hand motions. I politely explain that parents get free lunch during their children’s college orientation (a.k.a it’s lunchtime, and they are lining up for food).

The customer takes a few seconds to process this and ponder. Hmmmm.

Then, after a slight hesitation, he draws in a seriously deep, puff-chested breath, like he’s trying to suck in the whole store. And when he lets out his liquor-soaked breath, a long, exaggerated “GAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYY” comes out with it.

…….What??

Gay? Did he really just, well, belch the word Gay? Because a line of parents is blatantly homosexual?

Let me say, I’m not a politically correct person. The “gay” response in no way offended me or made me want to report him to the PC police. But his response, this strong whiff of GAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYY, was laughably stunning.

He took his Snickers and shuffled into the distance.

The Notorious Penny Jar Thief

As the saying goes: take a penny, leave a penny.

In my estimation, taking from one to five pennies to complete a purchase or to make change easier is perfectly acceptable. However, this sentiment is lost on one student who often claims the jar as his personal piggy bank.

Every couple of days, he empties numerous pennies into his clammy hands to buy test supplies, gum, or anything else he pleases solely with the pennies he takes. Seriously dude?

Am I the only one bothered by this? Technically, he’s not stealing. But something about this kid’s actions rubs me the wrong way. At least chip in a few cents. It’s not our store’s responsibility to provide you with your winterfresh gum.

The Man Who Returns Already-Eaten Food

Everyone likes a good sale. The cheaper the food, the better. One of our regular customers, an employee for the city bus system, has recently decided that he wants his food for free. Paying for items is so overrated.

Now, this gentleman is certainly a law-abiding citizen. For him, shoplifting is out of the question. Instead, he has devised a semi-ingenious (although not so morally sound) plan.

STEP 1: Purchase a chicken salad sandwich and a small carton of milk from our store.

STEP 2: Leave store.

STEP 3: Eat all but one bite of the sandwich and drink 3/4 of the milk.

STEP 4 (a.k.a the “brilliance” of his plan): Return to the store, find a manager and claim that the sandwich and the milk “didn’t taste good.” (Mhmmm, right.)

STEP 5: Receive a new sandwich and milk on the house after apologies from the manager.

Using my superior deduction skills, I postulated that Pinocchio is cheating the system, considering we sold nearly 20 identical sandwiches and cartons of milk that day; no other customers complained.

Our manager graciously swallowed Pinocchio’s fibs. I would not have been so understanding. My question is:

WHY IN THE WORLD WOULD YOU NEARLY FINISH A SANDWICH AND MILK THAT YOU THOUGHT TASTED REALLY FUNKY? (Is that too harsh?)

Plus, when he asked for another sandwich, he picked the same, identically packaged chicken salad sandwich. That would be like me purchasing a T-shirt, claiming that it gave me a rash, returning it and then buying an identical t-shirt. It’s insanity.

The Receipt Wars

In the customary ritual of monetary-for-goods exchange, the delightful cashier (in this case, me) asks the recipient of the goods (the customer) if he or she would care for the receipt from the transaction.

sample receipt - I don't work at Wal-Mart

Staple saying: “Thank you, and would you like your receipt?”

Appropriate responses: 1. Yes  2. No, thanks

However, the customer is often uncomfortable with this question. In fact, some are even baffled or startled by it. A cherished few will say “yes, thank you.” They get a gold star. Others blurt out “NO” with vengeance, like I’m offering them a steaming pile of dog crap. The customer is a fickle creature, easily confused and agitated.

If the customer does not immediately respond to the proposed question (would you like your receipt?), a long pause usually follows. Their mouths drop open and a blank stare ensues, like I asked them: what is the square root of pi? Or, who was the third president of Chad? After a few agonizing seconds of sounding a long, contemplative “ummmmm…hmmmmm…,” the customer responds with one of the following.

1. A vigorous nod or head shake.

2. Complete silence, pretending I never asked the question in the first place (I usually take this response as a “no”).

3. A scoff, followed by an exaggerated “noooo” (a.k.a. Bitch, do I look like I want my receipt?)

4. A slew of other creative sayings. The following are a few of my favorites.

“No, I want you to recycle it.” (Besides the fact that this is a blatant order, the customer fails to recognize that there is no recycle bucket behind the counter. Should I stick the receipt in my pocket and recycle it at my house later? I disobey the customer’s direct order. The paper went to receipt heaven, also known as the local landfill.)

“You can keep it, save it or something.” (Really?? I can keep it?! Wow golly gee, mister. Thanks a bunch! I’ll keep it close to my heart, so I can always remember that early June morning when you purchased a Little Debbie snack cake with your debit card.)

“I think I can survive without it.” (That’s shocking. For me, receipts are like oxygen.)

“If the moon says so.” (Beats me. You figure it out.)

Note: It is beyond annoying when a customer tells me they don’t want their receipt and then changes their mind after I throw it away, forcing me to dig through a trashcan filled with identical sales slips to search for one that specifies that they paid 27 cents for a chewy granola bar.

The moral of the story: a simple, polite “yes” or “no” will do. It’s not rocket science, people.

What’s the deal with Justin Bieber, anyway?

Apparently, nothing says pure sex like Justin Bieber. I have come to this conclusion after painfully observing that one eighth of the store’s magazine space is a shrine to the Bieb and to the cast of Twilight. Vampires and werewolves I understand (who doesn’t love hot-bodied monsters?), but this whole Bieber craze is baffling.

Is it entirely necessary to stock magazines that in total include over thirty full-sized posters of Justin Bieber? (These include shirtless Bieb, angsty Bieb, smiley Bieb, dashing Bieb and the Bieb’s head fitted into various movie montages.)

Furthermore, this is a college campus. What college student would pay $4.99 to read about a sixteen-year-old’s favorite type of ice cream? Sad statement.

The other day, bored out of my skull, I casually flipped through a magazine dedicated solely to Justin Bieber. My life is disintegrating before my eyes.

Trojan Man!!! (or woman)

Enter my seventh customer of the day. She buys three packs of Orbitz gum and gives me a twenty.

Her husband walks up behind her to rest a carefully-placed hand on her shoulder. (Remember this later). They are both in their middle forties.

Today is another day in a stream of college orientations. As a campus store, we service parents and future students spending exorbitant amount of money on t-shirts, foam fingers and shot glasses. After dropping their child (or children?) off at orientation, this couple ventured to my register to buy some minty-freshness. However, it was not their purchase that surprised me. It was the contents of this woman’s purse.

“Your total comes to three dollars,” I say.

The customer sets her bag on the counter, and I get a glimpse of something holy. An industrial size pack – a value pack, if you will – of Trojan condoms. Something about that large black box made me giggle.

Hmmm. Maybe the nearly-uncontrollable laughter came from this string of thoughts….

Wow. That’s a lot of condoms. 72. Really? Do you really need 72?

Where would two parents have sex on a college campus? Is the arboretum shady enough?

Is it entirely necessary to bring condoms with you to your child’s orientation? Does talking about safety concerns and dining hall food get you really fired up?

Luckily, I managed to hold in the belly laughs until they rounded the corner.

But really… 72?

Life of a Cashier. Part Uno.

 

The cash register is sometimes my only ally in a field of strange customers.

I’d like to think of myself as a monetary exchange specialist. Allow me to provide an appropriate scenario.

It’s a sunny one o’clock. Joe (yes, let’s call him Joe) walks up to my freshly polished counter and asks for thirty cents worth of test supplies. I slide a brand new bluebook across the surface that stands between us. “That’ll be thirty cents,” I say with a debonair accent. He hands me a quarter. Gasp! Thankfully, I have a trusty cash register to calculate the difference (30 – 25). “5 cents is your change, have a super fantastic day.” I am the queen.

Detect the sarcasm?

My job is painfully simple. I use a scanner. I push no more than three keys on the computer per hour. I read – but only out of boredom and nothing that actually pertains to my job. I’ve flipped through the pages of every single magazine we carry (including a radical feminist motif magazine called Bitch, which I enjoyed more than I expected – mostly for its unintended humor), and now know more about the Kardashians and Sandra’s baby than I should. Yesterday, I read Justin Bieber’s life story. It’s just sad.

I make $7.28 an hour. Is that even minimum wage?

I would like to dedicate this blog to my pathetic existence from 7:15 am to noon every day of this dreadfully hot summer.