I’m not the most productive worker at work. I won’t deny it: sometimes, yes, I am trying to keep the information desk from floating away. I do scan the backs of titles I find interesting. I’m not always the first person to respond, “On my way up!” when people page for assistance to the registers. Still, when it comes to customer service? You’re in very good hands with me. “Above and beyond”, that’s my motto. I mean, I’m not going to run ten blocks to our sister store to find you a copy of the book that we’re sold out of, but I will give them a call and see if they can hold it for you.
Tonight, a customer was looking for the three-disc Hulk DVD release. Regular DVD, not Blu Ray. The computer said we had some, but it doesn’t update for a few days — I couldn’t find any on the shelves, and having checked the section, and every end cap, I apologized and told him he was out of luck. A few minutes after he left, I was straightening DVDs on the front-of-music display when I found a copy tucked behind another movie. I wasn’t about to go running around the store looking for this guy — well, I would’ve — but I did a store-wide page, and a minute later he came back downstairs and shook my hand.
Last night, we had an author signing. A customer had a book personalized and signed, then left it on hold overnight. She returned this evening to purchase it, but the book had inadvertently been pulled by the morning crew and re-shelved. I went through every copy on the shelves, looking for a personalized sticker, and I didn’t find it. I went to the information desk, and went through the re-shelve cart looking for it, but didn’t find it. I was telling her that I was sorry, someone else must’ve bought it, when I had an idea, and dashed downstairs, where I found it on the stickerless shelf in the back (which involves a long story — stickers? What? Yes, unless they’ve just come in for an author event in which case “Maybe not”).
Unfortunately, there are customers with whom there is quite simply no pleasing. There are customers who walk into the store and I wish I’d thought to call out. These customers make me want to, alternately, throw myself in front of a speeding Metro train, or bash their skulls in with large blunt objects. There are a few customers who, on sight of, I will do everything in my power to avoid. As in, I’d contemplate throwing myself head first down the elevator shaft if it was only chance of escape. The customer that this anecdote revolves around is one who I fucking loathe. Not hate. Loathe.
I remember the first time I had a problem with her. Up to this point, I thought she was just you average, old lady. Then, as I checked her out, I made the mistake of asking her if she wanted one of the Bookstore’s Frequent Shopper cards. She did not say “No.” She did not say “No, Thank You.” She screamed. Top of her lungs. From nice old harmless lady to holy-shit-this-old-bat-is-batshit-insane: ranting and wailing about lists, and charts, and tracking, and blah-blah-blah, and how dare Bookstore expect to track her in such a way? (Fun fact: she paid with a credit card.)
From that moment on, I’ve tried my best to stay out of her way. Usually, I’m successful. She’s in the store a couple of times a week. I’ve had three bad encounters with her: the first was the one mentioned above. On the second encounter, she was leaving the store when I was the only person working the register. She came through, I didn’t offer her a card, and I rang her up for several DVDs and CDs. There’s a black box on the floor by each register which, when stepped on, activates the giant magnet thingy under the counter which de-activates the security chiklets. Apparently, I missed one, because not fifteen seconds after I thanked her for shopping, and she thanked me for ringing her up, the gates at the front of the store went off and she stormed into the register queue screaming at me for all but accusing her of being a thief. I tried apologizing, but she stormed right back out of the store, cussing me out the whole time.
So flash forward to Monday night. I’m doing recovery on the bottom floor, and she’s being assisted in the movie department. She’s looking for a box set that isn’t going to be released until the next day (the only one of said box set that we show we’re going to get, also). The smart thing to do would have been to let the employee helping her out — still somewhat new — explain to her that she’d just have to call first thing and see if it was on the shelf, and then we could hold it for her. But no. I couldn’t let him do that, because even though I know she’s a fucking spoiled bitch who flips out when she doesn’t get exactly what she wants when she wants it, I figured I’d try to provide some great customer service. What did I do? I told her I’d go look in the back, and see if I could find the set in the back. I told her I’d be a minute, took a reserve slip, and did, indeed, find a copy of the set in the backroom. I stuck the reserve slip on the box, trusted that the overnight crew would put it on the back counter behind the registers, and informed Moody McBitch that she could pick it up anytime the next day.
Too bad for me, Moody McBitch came in at 4 on Tuesday, which was also when I came on the clock. Nightcrew left the box set in the back. Moody McBitch got in a screaming fit with whoever was at the register, then came down to the Music Information desk, where I was working, demanded to know if I was the person who’d helped her the previous night (I should’ve said “No, sorry, I wasn’t working”, but I said “Yes!”), then screamed and bitched me out. Meanwhile, a manager had gone into the backroom, located the box set, and taken it up to the registers. I informed Moody McBitch about this, and you think, you might think, you might think (and you’d be totally fucking wrong) that she might say, “Oh, great!” That she might’ve been like the guy looking for the three-disc DVD who extended his hand and shook mine, thanking me for my help. Could’ve been like the gal who got her personalized book back and jumped up saying “Great! Thank you!” Nope. Instead, Moody McBitch bitched me out, because now Moody had to waddle her fat retarded cunt ass back into the elevator and make the trip back up to the fucking registers. And why? Because she’s Moody McBitch, that’s why.
I fucking hate her.
The next time she wants me to help her find something, I’m going to pretend that the only language I speak is Klingon. And then I’m going to stick a bat’leth into her fucking skull.
