I walk in to the office supply store. It is my first day, I’m wearing black slacks, black sneakers, and a white t-shirt. My hair is styled in a way that says “I don’t really give a fuck,” and I really don’t.
The manager zones in on me with his big customer service eyes. He wants me to be enthusiastic. He wants me to be an old pro. But it’s 7am and I want to go back to bed. So he asks an associate to give me my firetruck colored shirt, but there is one problem, there aren’t any firetruck colored shirts in my size, not even any a size or two up. Pretty soon I’m walking around the store, shadowing one of my new coworkers in what appears to be the devil’s fucking nightgown.
60 minutes later, having none of the training that I need, I am thrown to the dogs. Scan this, price check that. I have no idea what I’m doing, and it shows. Some customers are getting angry, some are treating me like I’m an infant, and one told me that Jesus loves me. Thank you creepy old church lady, but you’re only making my day worse.
Pretty soon the dude that I’m shadowing leaves because he’s sick or whatever, and now I’m on the register by myself. And now I’m in the middle of the back to school rush. And now there is a line that is at least a mile long, full of irate old people and soccer moms. I thought you loved me Jesus, that is what the lady told me.
Day two, and I’m still not enjoying myself. My radio ear thing bothers me, my manager bothers me, and it feels like I’m stepping on a combination of fire and gravel, if that makes sense. My register skills are improving I guess, but now everybody is on my case about trying to act more excited around the customers. So I try it.
I smile, I try to say something funny, but it all comes off as being incredibly fake. The customers don’t give a shit about the friendly banter that I have to offer, they just want to get their pencils and leave. I try to step it up, to use the list of phrases that the manager gave to me. So when a woman said thank you, I said my pleasure.
I realized right after the words left my mouth that this was a huge mistake. The statement slid through my lips like slime, and the words entering my customers ears sounded incredibly disgusting. Who says “my pleasure” in real life? I sounded like a serial rapist, about to prey on an innocent back to school shopper.
My managers, the people who told me to try using the “correct” vernacular, were now laughing at me, as if it was my fault that I had just molested somebodies ears.
Day three, and I’m quickly becoming a pro. Would you like a 2 year protection plan? Packing and shipping is to your left, back to school stuff is over there. No ma’am, we are out of “penny glue.” No ma’am, we are not getting any more “penny glue.” Jesus woman, just get the glue for 50 cents and stop bitching!
Oh, how I wish I could say that last sentence to people. How I wish I could just yell and scream and match their level of asshole-itude. No, scratch that. I could do it better, I could use my intellect to shut them up and reduce them to the dribbling three year-olds that I know are just beyond the surface of the fat, wrinkly skin of the majority of people that I must serve.
Instead, I have to be up their asses all the time with unicorns and rainbows and all the office supplies that one could ever need, AND MORE!
“Hi there, my name is Anon, I will be your cashier today.”
