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Retail customers are the laziest, stupidest people in the entire world. This is hardly news to anyone who has worked in any customer service position. After 13 years in inventory I've been in enough backrooms to know that a majority of customer service workers hate their clientele as much as I do, even though the customer is their whole raison d'etre. There's a whole community devoted to it, ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
customers_suck, if you don't believe me. For my first job I worked 3 miserable years at McDonald's, so yeah, I know from rude, obnoxious, retarded customers. I'd sooner haul garbage than take a customer service-oriented job again. This is why I put up with bullshit beyond reckoning at inventory, because at least I don't have to deal with customers. The funniest ones are the people who come up to the store, stop and read the huge sign, "Sorry, closed for inventory" and try the door anyway, like it's a practical joke or a hidden camera show. But so far the prize for biggest witless fuckwad in my entire career was a customer who interrupted me as I counted a teeny convenience store, literally one set of 8-foot shelves on the salesfloor, front and back, and asked me where something was, as if there was an entire secret salesfloor somewhere else if he got the password right. I told him, "Well, if it isn't on this side, try that side" and gave him the look I felt his IQ level fully deserved. Customers on top of being idiotic are frequently unspeakably rude. I've counted stores in some of the dodgiest areas in town and encountered some of the nicest people; conversely, the rich folk treat us like cockroaches. I and my fellow auditors have been run over by shopping carts, shouldered out of the way and talked sneeringly about with us standing right there by these people, proving that money can't buy manners.
No, I have no reason to like customers at all.
So last night when we did a Whole Foods inventory right in the heart of Denver's Cherry Creek district (the name should be a big enough clue as to which side of the dodgy/chi-chi-poo-poo line it sits) on Fourth of July evening, I had my reservations. We started at 6 and the store was hoppin', but I was encouraged by a sign on the door telling people they were closing at 7. It was a fairly carefree job despite being so busy, and at 7, as planned, the store cheerfully announced closing time. The aisles were empty, we could work in peace, all was right with my world. Until about 7:15 when while counting the pasta aisle a customer asked me where the sun-dried basil tomato sauce was. Okay, a.) I realize the array of product choices on the shelves can be quite dizzying, but could you just make the smallest effort to find it on your own? b.) As much as I enjoy shattering the customers' illusions that I exist to serve them hand and foot, I have my limits, especially when c.) THE FUCKING STORE IS CLOSED. I gave him my well-practiced, "Sorry sir, I don't work for the store," except I left off the "sorry" and the "sir," and with a decidedly brusque tone. He stepped back in surprise and said snidely, "Sorry, didn't mean to piss you off." I just looked at him and went back to counting. A few minutes later Mrs. Witless Fucktard came up to me to ask the same question in her best Malibu Barbie voice. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him grab her arm and pull her away, like I was a rabid dog. They searched for close to ten minutes for their sauce, and I heard him at one point whine, "It has to be sun-dried!" I apologize for the crass stereotyping, but straight men do NOT talk like that. Looking around I realized there were other customers still lazily roaming the aisles, as if this was a bar after last call, and as long as you were inside the doors before it was made there was no hurry. I hoped and prayed the store was closing up their registers so they couldn't pay for anything, but I knew this was probably not the case. The customer is always right, after all, even when they are obviously, totally, dead wrong.
Fucking rich people.
-=Lainey=-
customers_suck, if you don't believe me. For my first job I worked 3 miserable years at McDonald's, so yeah, I know from rude, obnoxious, retarded customers. I'd sooner haul garbage than take a customer service-oriented job again. This is why I put up with bullshit beyond reckoning at inventory, because at least I don't have to deal with customers. The funniest ones are the people who come up to the store, stop and read the huge sign, "Sorry, closed for inventory" and try the door anyway, like it's a practical joke or a hidden camera show. But so far the prize for biggest witless fuckwad in my entire career was a customer who interrupted me as I counted a teeny convenience store, literally one set of 8-foot shelves on the salesfloor, front and back, and asked me where something was, as if there was an entire secret salesfloor somewhere else if he got the password right. I told him, "Well, if it isn't on this side, try that side" and gave him the look I felt his IQ level fully deserved. Customers on top of being idiotic are frequently unspeakably rude. I've counted stores in some of the dodgiest areas in town and encountered some of the nicest people; conversely, the rich folk treat us like cockroaches. I and my fellow auditors have been run over by shopping carts, shouldered out of the way and talked sneeringly about with us standing right there by these people, proving that money can't buy manners. No, I have no reason to like customers at all.
So last night when we did a Whole Foods inventory right in the heart of Denver's Cherry Creek district (the name should be a big enough clue as to which side of the dodgy/chi-chi-poo-poo line it sits) on Fourth of July evening, I had my reservations. We started at 6 and the store was hoppin', but I was encouraged by a sign on the door telling people they were closing at 7. It was a fairly carefree job despite being so busy, and at 7, as planned, the store cheerfully announced closing time. The aisles were empty, we could work in peace, all was right with my world. Until about 7:15 when while counting the pasta aisle a customer asked me where the sun-dried basil tomato sauce was. Okay, a.) I realize the array of product choices on the shelves can be quite dizzying, but could you just make the smallest effort to find it on your own? b.) As much as I enjoy shattering the customers' illusions that I exist to serve them hand and foot, I have my limits, especially when c.) THE FUCKING STORE IS CLOSED. I gave him my well-practiced, "Sorry sir, I don't work for the store," except I left off the "sorry" and the "sir," and with a decidedly brusque tone. He stepped back in surprise and said snidely, "Sorry, didn't mean to piss you off." I just looked at him and went back to counting. A few minutes later Mrs. Witless Fucktard came up to me to ask the same question in her best Malibu Barbie voice. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him grab her arm and pull her away, like I was a rabid dog. They searched for close to ten minutes for their sauce, and I heard him at one point whine, "It has to be sun-dried!" I apologize for the crass stereotyping, but straight men do NOT talk like that. Looking around I realized there were other customers still lazily roaming the aisles, as if this was a bar after last call, and as long as you were inside the doors before it was made there was no hurry. I hoped and prayed the store was closing up their registers so they couldn't pay for anything, but I knew this was probably not the case. The customer is always right, after all, even when they are obviously, totally, dead wrong.
Fucking rich people.
-=Lainey=-
