In an earlier post I wrote about my second, part time job I’ve been pulling in a little dollar store very nearby my full time gig. It’s been a fun ride, but in lieu of the exciting new position that I will soon be starting at Plum Market, I have decided to mostly let go of the second job. (I say mostly because I told them I would continue to come in Sunday mornings, for a few hours, and keep the toy aisle stocked, which is actually my favorite thing to do there, and if they want to give me a few bucks to keep doing it, why not? They seem inclined to let me do so.)
Here is the original post about the dollar store job, in case you missed it: (or care.)
Today was my last Friday there, which is the one day I will miss the least. First of all, by the time I arrive I’ve already had a full 8 hours of work at Plum, which is usually quite tiring, but instead of getting to go home and commence my weekend of debauchery, I must then go over to the second job to put in another 4-5 hours of work. (The horror…THE HORROR!!!) I’m almost never in the mood for it on Friday, and today, only a few minutes after I got there, a refugee from the Jerry Springer show came barging into the store and started making trouble for the poor beleaguered cashier on duty.
I wan’t privy to the entire situation, as, for one thing, I had only recently arrived, and for another, my duties there consist almost entirely of dealing with stock and not people, which I do while wearing headphones, and yet this woman’s piercing, hillbilly drawl was impossible to not hear, so I was able to piece together a basic idea of what had transpired to so upset this grotesque Gargantua with almost no teeth, a sleeveless Kid Rock t-shirt, and a cloud of cigarette stench hovering around her, (which was almost visible in the way that the dust clouds swirl around the Peanuts character known as Pig Pen.)
1.) Her daughter (who may or may not have been 18 years of age) had come in to buy a lighter featuring one of several different NASCAR drivers. Someone had rang it up without question.
2.) The daughter had presented it to her mother, but the mother didn’t care for that particular NASCAR driver, and sent her back into the store to exchange it for a different NASCAR driver lighter.
3.) When the daughter returned, there was a different cashier on duty (the one now working) and he absolutely refused to let her exchange lighters without presenting ID proving she was at least 18 years of age. (In other words, he was doing his job, to the letter.)
4.) Gargantua (I’ve just decided that will be her name from now on) now has to haul her own giant lard butt into the store to exchange NASCAR lighters herself, and is not particularly happy about it. (What an OUTRAGE!)
The clerk stood his ground, explaining he had only been following the rules.
Gargantua now announces “I wanna talk to yer Owner.” (So I guess she missed the memo when Abraham Lincoln put an end to humans owning humans in this country some 150 years ago, but also, this chain of dollar stores doesn’t exactly have “an owner.” There are shareholders, a CEO, and a board of directors, none of whom are likely to have ever set foot inside a dollar store and I would lay any amount of money down that not a one of them gives a single solitary shit about the sale of one pathetic NASCAR lighter.)
She storms through the aisle that I happen to be working in, seeking the alleged “Owner” and I paid not a single iota of attention to her as she and her chem trail passed by. (My complete indifference to her must have clued her in to the fact that I was not a “management type”) She finds the manager, who was quietly stocking shelves in the back of the store and a lively discussion ensues which pretty much resulted in Gargantua being told (in the nicest way possible) to go away and not come back.
She then announces, full of red neck self righteousness. “I’m gonna notify the Po-Leece!” (For what, exactly…was not made clear)
The poor cashier who’d had to deal with Gargantua first seemed a little on edge by this point, so the manager and I both wandered up towards the front of the store to attempt to reassure him he had done nothing wrong. I said “Well at least I have something to write about for my blog now!” at which point we all laughed.
(The “Po-leece” never showed up.)
(Sorry if this tale of terror isn’t as entertaining as some of my other posts, but they can’t all be hits. I’m not the fucking Beatles.)