32 posts tagged “crazy customer”

Yesterday, I got my health department foodhandler's license.  I've been told that I may be trained in the store's cafe--may even be working a shift or so a week there--and so I needed the license.

Let me just say that it disturbs me considerably that anyone might try to take this test and not pass it.

"Do you need to wash your hands after leaving the bathroom and before handling food?" Are you kidding me?

Sadly, no.

Anyway, some cafe stories may appear in the weeks to come.  One of the best I've heard from over there involves a woman who wanted her latte heated to "230 degrees."  (And yes, that's Farenheit.)  When the barista pointed out that the latte would boil at a bit over 200 degrees and that at 230 degrees it would be naught but STEAM, the woman insisted that the barista was incompetent and stormed out.

when you manage to insult at least half the staff, demand seven impossible and unreasonable things in as many minutes, scream until your Botoxed face actually starts to wrinkle a bit because we cannot be so clairvoyant as to know what book your book club president recommended when you yourself can tell us nothing, drop your latte on the floor and complain because you stepped in it, and finally stomp  out the door, get in your uber-pricy SUV,

and, since you're too busy yacking on your cellphone, you don't see the large landscape boulder on your right as you turn

and you go off the drive a little bit

(not veering really far, but just enough)

to drive your front wheel over the rock, thus a) wrecking your undercarriage, b) necessitating a tow truck, c) getting you screamed at by various drivers for blocking the driveway, and d) making the staff come to the front window periodically to watch the unfolding drama and laugh.

(this one happened months ago, but it was so lovely that it periodically springs to mind)

...your toddler toddles himself over to a complete stranger and coos incomprehensibly at her

she flags down a passing bookseller

the bookseller and customer spend a full ten minutes trying to find you

you only come up to us as we've decided to phone the police

you promptly let the kid run away again, sit back down and continue reading your graphic novel

and the bookseller feels naught but deep schadenfeude-y joy

(indeed, she's much happier than she's been all evening)

because, you idiot, the woman who was trying to find you to return your spawn

works for the county Children and Family Services, and is really, really, REALLY Not Amused.

Sir,

You have a right to your opinions.  You have the right to complain obnoxiously about "those (expletive) (ethnic group)" messing up the store.  You also may be an idiot, but you have that right.  If we made idiocy illegal, we'd have to arrest 95% of the population in DC.

Might I offer a suggestion, however?

Don't complain about "those (expletive) (ethnic group)" to a bookseller who is (rather obviously, I must say) a member of "that (expletive) (ethnic group)."

Just a suggestion, mind you.  Take it or leave it.

Personally, I thought she did rather well not to dump a steaming latte on your head, particularly as you are in the store 3x/week or so and make an impressive mess while you are here.

Sincerely,

Your Friendly Neighborhood Bookseller

Really.

I mantain that no one--NO ONE--particularly an innocent and unsuspecting salesgirl--needs/wants/had any desire to know

a) the excruciating details of your, erm, extremely private piercings that you recently acquired (including descriptions of discharges, colors, size of holes, etc)

b) that you spent all of last weekend "in bed with your girlfriend."

Ew.  Just...ew.  No.  Did not need to know.  Need brain bleach.  Thank you.

And the mullet?  Bad idea in the 80s, worse in the 90s, a retro bad idea now.  Bonus negative points if you haven't washed it in a few weeks or so.

Overheard at the bookstore last night:

Supervisor, who specializes in the truly gosh-awful pun: "Now, you might be aware that I'm rather fond of wordplay."

UbiCaritas, nodding in agreement: "Punfully so."

Ouch.  That was just...ouch.

Clearly, I've worked with him too often; he's beginning to rub off on me.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

And again: it is not the full moon.  Yet I spent last evening with as rich an assortment of morons as ever graced an unfortunate bookstore. 

When a person calls The Bookstore, they hear a recording that says something along the lines of "Thank you for calling The Bookstore.  We are located on Smith Street, just north of the Village Shopping Center.  We are open daily from 9 AM until 11 PM.  Please hold, and a bookseller will be with you shortly."

When I answer the phone, I always say the same thing: "The Bookstore, Smith Street, UbiCaritas speaking.  How may I help you?"

Yet three people--not one, not two, but three--asked of me after I answered the phone, "Is this The Bookstore on Smith Street?"

I thought that I did remarkably well not to say something along the lines of, "No, this is the Victoria's Secret in Beijing.  I just wanted to make you THINK that you had reached The Bookstore on Smith Street!"

Then I had Mayan Calendar Dude.  People who want books about the Mayan Calendar are almost always strange, and he was a fine example of that species.

He didn't know the title of the book, didn't know the author of the book, did know that the author had been featured on a radio broadcast (station and/or show unknown) almost three years ago, and also knew that the book had black lettering on the cover.

At some point or other while I was trying to find this title in the computer, the above-mentioned supervisor also asked Mayan Calendar Dude if he needed assistance.  Mayan Calendar Dude--bear in mind that both of these men are old enough to be my father--replied, "Oh, no, this little lady is helping me.  She's full of fluff."

Me: slight doubletake

MCD: "That's a complement."

(eyes never get above my chest)

The Supervisor says nothing, but very kindly follows the both of us around until Mayan Calendar Dude finally gets tired of staring at my chest/touching my arm/staying within four inches at all times.

Finally I had the utterly clueless teacher.  She called, explained that she was a sixth-grade teacher and wanted to check an item on a student's Works Cited page that was attached to a research paper.  She gave me a title and an author; I could not find either in the system. 

I finally said, "Ma'am, I know that it generally isn't put on a Works Cited page, but the student didn't happen to list an ISBN for this title, did he?"

Teacher: "No, all he gave me was an author's name, a date, a title, and a link."

Me, after short pause: "Is it possible that he was listing an online article?  That sounds a bit (read: exactly) like a citation for a website."

Her: "No, it can't be.  You don't list websites on a Works Cited page!"

No wonder we're (academically speaking, at the least) so far behind other countries.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Various and assorted tests are finished.  I am leaving work in twenty minutes, and from thence I will go to the store, get some salmon, some marinade, and some fresh fruits and veggies.  I also have a bottle of wine atop my refrigerator that has yet to be opened.  Feet will be propped up, good food will be consumed, and bed will be early.

Within the first two hours of my shift at work, I had:

--A family who spoke little English, but who repeatedly informed me that they wanted me to do their income taxes.  When I explained as best as I could that we sold libros and were not, in point of fact, tax consultants, they were outraged.  Oh, and they wanted me to do their taxes for free because "she say it free."  Who "she" was, and why on earth "she" would do anyone's taxes for free I will probably never know.

--One little old lady who kept trying to give me a check made out to the Boy Scouts of America.  It took five tries to explain to her that I really needed the check that was made out to The Bookstore and not one that was made out to the BSA.  This transaction, which included one book, took almost ten minutes.

--One gentleman who purchased a Bible, The Shack, and a Playboy.  I don't know.  I didn't ask.  People are weird.

--Another gentleman who could tell me nothing about the book that he wanted except that a) it dealt with personal finances, and b) that the guy who wrote it "had really great hair."  For the record: we do not have an "author's hair" search option in our inventory software.  Sorry.

Yeah.

..may I present one of my all-time favorite "my customers are sodding nuts" stories?

I'm not going to New York.  A trip back there in January is a distinct possibility, but this has been a long 48 hours.  Sometimes, I'm pretty sure that Someone Upstairs occasionally keeps us from doing things that we shouldn't by throwing up roadblocks where necessary.  A sufficiently large number of said blocks have come up to persuade this diva that heading north and east is a Bad Idea at this moment.

In honor of my aunt, though, I'd like to put up a post of one of her crazy customer stories.  My aunt sold appliances on commission at Sears for 30+ years, and had stories.  Oh, did she have stories.  We used to compare those stories, and I'll miss that.

Okay, here goes.

One lovely and hot summer day, an elderly gentleman and his middle-aged daughter came into the appliance department.  The gentleman was looking for a new freezer, as his had died.  He wanted one of fairly decent size, as he enjoyed fishing and would freeze that which he did not immediately eat.  He seemed rather annoyed that he had had to throw away all the fish that had been in this freezer, as the freezer was in an outbuilding of some sort and he hadn't noticed that it wasn't working for a week or so. 

He also said up front that he'd pay for the freezer in cash, which, due to the large amount of money involved, was slightly unusual.

Throughout the entire thirty minutes or so that it took to make the sale, the daughter repeatedly apologized to my aunt, but never specified why she was apologizing.  She just kept saying "I'm so sorry to bother you; I'm so sorry you have to deal with this," etc, etc.  My aunt finally took her aside and pointed out that purchasing a freezer (and thereby giving my aunt rather a nice commission) was no reason to apologize.

"You don't understand.  Dad was a young man during the Depression."

"Well, yes, and I'm sure that would have an effect upon him."  (mentally wondering what in God's green earth this has to do with shelf capacity)

"See, he doesn't trust banks or credit cards."

"That's okay; he doesn't have to open a charge account with us, and we certainly don't mind taking cash." (Does anyone?)

"But that's the problem.  He doesn't keep his money in the bank."

"I...see, but really, we can take cash whether or not he has kept it in a bank."

"Yes, but he was worried that someone might find his money and steal it, so he kept it in the freezer.  Under the fish."

And yes, my aunt did have to process the transaction.

Picture it: typical--so to speak--customers walk in.  Couple with his-n-hers matching blue mohawks.  They walk up to the cash register with three items:

1. One copy of Weed Weekly, $3.50

2. One copy of Growers' Monthly, $4.99

3. What to Expect When You're Expecting, $17.99

Oh, dear.

Sadly, it ain't in my budget.

I spent much of my evening getting a considerable amount of backchat from customers. 

-Why don't we have Tuesday's issue of the New York Times?  (Because it's Friday, you mental midget)

-Why are employees allowed to put popular magazines on hold? (Because retail slaves are people too, you cranial-rectal inversion victim)

-Why aren't we playing Christmas music? (Because if we were, this retail drone would have gone completely berserk two hours ago)

Then there was that kid who walked around asking various (female) booksellers and customers to meet him after the store closed for a coffee.  He might--I exaggerate not--have been twelve. He repeatedly told at least one customer (circa ten years his senior) to "call her boyfriend and I'll beat him up."  He also got behind the customer service desk and messed about with the computers, tried to get into the back room, threw merchandise and a stepstool around and generally behaved like a cross between a predator and a three-year-old.  Yet Brian refused to remove him from the store, and even chastised one of the booksellers for threatening to ask the kid to leave after the kid got behind the desk for the third time.

The Christmas season playlist includes Paul Simon, Mamma Mia! (for the fourth month in a row), Tony Bennett, and Josh Groban (again).  I may have to have Flamingo Dancer add the corporate music person to her hit-with-a-stick list.  She could come to the US, apply the stick where necessary, and then flee back to Australia.  Does Australia extradite, I wonder?  Must find out.

Finally, if Cascapedia does not make a miraculous recovery by tomorrow tomorrow morning, she's going back to the vet.  She isn't better, and just brought the meds I gave her right back up again. I didn't even bother trying some fluids, as if she's vomiting the antibiotics, she'll bring those fluids back up, too.  Please send prayes/positive thoughts her way; I'm rather worried.