The Heartless Clerk

Today was my last day in the retail store of the chocolate factory where I work. Recently I was promoted to another department, which is beneficial for all parties concerned: were I forced to stay in the store I'd have put in my two months notice by now. If I had chosen to stay in the store, the company would have to fire me by now.

Some people can work retail and make a life career out of it. I am not one of those people. My job as a tour guide and store clerk at a small premium chocolate factory called for a tremendous deal of interaction with high-maintainance customers. We also had a few staffing clusterfucks over the past year...so the overall atmoshpere of what should ideally be a fun and stimulating job was, at times, pure hell.

Long ago I reached a breaking point with rude customers. I'm willing to put up with difficult people, but I am not willing to be humiliated or treated as a sublevel human or a slave to the retail beast. We have lost a few sales over this, which I have mixed feelings about --part of me thinks I should be a better employee and a better human, and part of me thinks that what goes around comes around, and that shitheads customers are entitled to shit for service.

This morning was my last hurrah as an evil employee. A larger woman in tunic-like series of cardigan, scarf, and skirt walked through the door and straight up to the register.

"May I help you?" I asked. She seemed focused, impatient.

"Yes--do you have any boxes of the assorted caramels left?"

I looked at our display of confections. "No, I'm afraid we're out of the assortment...we do have the sea salt caramels, though."

Halfway through my statement the woman turned around and made her way to the door. "Well, that not what I asked for, was it?" she said in a clipped tone, audible to everyone in the store.

So I bit back. "WELL," I sneered, "I guess it's NOT, is it?" Stupid bitch. I turned to the nice-looking man in front of the register. "Some people jusy let things get to them too much," I said.

He nodded knowingly. "They're just caramels."

Just caramels, indeed. We've had people fly off the handle because we were out of their favorite ice cream flavor, or because we'd run out of free hot cocoa samples, or because our chocolate is made with refined cane sugar instead of blueberries. We've had a woman bring chocolate purchased at another retailer--and covered in cat hair, I might add--back for a cash refund. We've had people stride into the store and demand a free tour on a day when we had no tours remaining. "We came all the way from New Jersey!" they say. Yeah, ever heard of a phone? Ever heard of planning ahead and making reservations?

The sense of entitlement that some of our customers toss around makes me aghast. When I go out in public, I try to be patient--to wait in line, to be understanding. I try to make contact with clerks and servers, to say thank you and mean it. I try to remind myself that I'm not more important than other people that might want help, too.

Most people behave this way--with civility, perhaps some kindness. But a small percentage does not, and these are the ones whom screw it all up for the others. These are the people who destroy the souls of retail clerks, bank tellers, hotel conciegres, servers in restaurants. Their sourness turns previously sweet souls sour as well. My heart is now black because of retail. I am a bad influence.

About an hour later, a co-worker tapped me on the shoulder. "Someone is on the phone for you," she said. "She asked for the girl in the red sweater who helped her this morning."

So I picked up the phone. "Hello. How can I help you?"

"Yes--I am the customer who came in this morning and asked you a question, and I heard you make fun of me when I left." She spoke clearly, but in her determination was the essence of instability. You know what I mean. That lady was a living, breathing red flag.

"Yes?" I said.

"I just wanted to let you know that what you said really hurt me. I know that this is a busy time for you there, but my father committed suicide this year, and it's been very hard for me."

There was a tiny pause. I guess it was my turn to talk. "I'm sorry to hear that." It didn't seem to do the trick, so I offered her to speak with my manager.

"No," she said. "I just wanted to let you know that what you said will be with me all day long."

"I'm sorry about that," I said.

"It's going to be with me all day long," she reminded me.

"I won't forget," I said. She said goodbye and hung up.

I realized I hadn't apologized to her for what I said--I'd only said I was sorry about how she felt. But I was not sorry for what I did, and I was not going to lie to her about that. Does a personal tragedy give someone a free pass to be a dick?

I don't think so. I felt badly for this woman, who was unkind to people and then let the results get to her so much that a silly interraction with a stranger in a store ate away at her. Maybe I should have suggested she go to therapy or grief counseling. The problem at hand was clearly larger than an incident with a clerk at a chocolate factory.

She took the time to call--that's what blows my mind. I'm going to remember hurting her feelings for sure, but I'm not going to let it keep me from being a bitch when it's called for.

So it's good I'm not in the store anymore.