The holiday season has dropped on us like a piano out of a fourth story building. And what better way to celebrate than showing our thanks for the true heroes of the holiday season: the sales clerks.
Especially the mean, cranky and just downright weird ones.
Why I remember like it was only yesterday...
When I worked in North Kansas City, I would spend my lunch hour in downtown, shopping for the holidays. At a CVS drugstore (hey, I was broke that Christmas!), I spotted my nemesis: the rude, mean old woman clerk with an indecipherable accent from the Slavic regions or wherever. Having had very unpleasant experiences with her in the past, I decided to bypass her checkout lane and opt to stand in line behind a bunch of other shoppers at the next lane (I'm betting they, too, had similar horrible experiences with Ms. Krampus).
But, alas, she spotted me. And yelled at me as usual. "Hey! Hey, chubs! Come on over!. Nobody waiting. What're you, dumb or something?" That may or may not be what she was screaming, hard to tell with her accent, but it was too late...she'd ensnared me into her checkout line.
Immediately, she started in on the abuse. "C'mon, c'mon, I ain't got all day! Get that stuff up here. Let's go!" (Actually, it looked to me like she DID have all day since smarter shoppers than I avoided her like the plague.)
Fast as I could, I unloaded my cart. But apparently it wasn't quick enough for her. "Quit yer dawdlin'! Buy the gum or don't, I don't give the damn!"
I tried to make a little small talk, hoping to charm her with an irresistible grin, but instead I probably looked like I had to go to the bathroom.
I said nothing and hauled ass out of there. She didn't even earn a "thank you" from me, not that she ever offered one. I wondered how she still had a job. Perhaps the stress of the holidays was getting to her, but then I remembered that she was like that the year round.
To get back in the holiday spirit, I went down the street to the post office. And waited. And waited...
All during the time I inched closer, I kept my eye on my other holiday nemesis: the Oliver Hardy lookalike postal employee. But that's where any resemblance to Hardy ended. Always grumpy, always yelling, always rude, I hoped to get any clerk but him. (When I got back to work, one of my peers told me he hated the "big fat mean postal worker" so I took solace in knowing that I was not alone.)
"Next," he bellowed, looking at me. "C'mon, c'mon, you want a mailed invitation?"
Like a dog with its' tail between its' legs (or Oliver asking for more porridge), I scooted up to his nook. "Ah...um...I need to mail this package. And hope it gets there for Christmas."
He grabs the box I'd taped up, looks at all six sides, then says, "This is unmailable! You've got an old address on here!"
"Oh, well it's an old box. I'm reusing it. You know...heh...keeping it green," I said and began to work at peeling the old label off.
Then he said, "You're just not gonna help me at all, are you?"
Although, it seemed to me like I was doing his work for him.
Our hellish transaction completed, I got outta there fast.
The next day was time for me to take my mom shopping (which I've written about before...extensively). During the Christmas season, it's extra joyous. But I tried to work up that old holiday joy that yesterday's two clerks did their best to sour.
Everything went well (ish) until we reached the checkout line in the grocery store. This short, potato-looking woman stared at us, sizing the two of us up. In another nearly unintelligible accent from a country unknown, she asked my mom, "Is zere anyzing else to help with?"
My mom, frugal as ever, said, "Say, didn't you offer some program for every dollar I spend?"
Oh boy, I thought. We're gonna be here all day.
"Yezzz! If you spend zo much money, you collect points and trade zem in for free plastic ware."
They went back and forth for a while, my mom not understanding the process (or the clerk's accent) and the potato clerk unable to explain the program in a clear and concise manner.
Finally, I intervened. "Mom, the more money you spend, the more points you get, and say if you hit 500 points, then you can get some plastic container for food."
"Well," said mom. "How do they know how much I spent? I've already spent a lot of money here. Does that count? Or is it highway robbery?"
Like a magician, the woman displayed a small pamphlet from seemingly out of nowhere. "Here, take zis. It explainz everyzing."
At my wit's end, I reached for it. Suddenly the clerk yanked it away from me. I lunged in again. This time she hid it behind her back like a schoolyard bully keeping the ball away from me.
"No," she screamed, "I zaid I'd give it to her. Not you!" She pushed it into my mom's hand. "Here."
Trying not to blow a gasket, I said, "She can't hear very well. And she won't be able to read it. She's has macular degeneration."
"Iz she really?" The ultimate insult. Like I'm trying to steal some lousy gold-plated plastic ware pamphlet from my mother by lying about her condition. Ms. Potato studied my mom who was now holding the pamphlet one inch in front of her face and upside down, perfectly illustrating my point.
Disgusted, I took the pamphlet of immeasurable pleasures from mom and tried not to throw a hissy-fit; a hissy-fit the likes that the grocery store has never seen before. I considered asking for the manager, but hey, it was Christmas. And I wanted to get out of there.
I dunno, gang. Does this kinda stuff happen to you during the holidays?
Or is it just me? I think it's me. It's gotta be me...
Happy holidays, everyone!
On the other hand, if you'd rather celebrate your "horrordays" in a different manner, check out all of the Grinning Skull "Deathlehem" Christmas short story collections. A perfect counter-balance to all of the Hallmark movies and cherub-faced tykes and impossibly happy carolers and endless, cutesy Christmas songs that are impossible to escape. I'm particularly fond of The Shadow Over Deathlehem (because I have a story in it), available here! Also, all of these story collections' profits go to benefit the Elizabeth Glazer Pediatric AIDS Foundation.
No comments:
Post a Comment