Oh, yes! Yes, I do! Don't you wish you were me?
I've been working there for a few months now and, honestly, I love numerous parts of my job. I can't find any position in my field right now (seems no one is hiring - shocker, I realize), so I'm comfortable working for The Evil, Earth-Sucking Empire™ that is a major oil and gas company.
A large part of me truly despises working for The Man and all but, ya know, I get an honest paycheck every two weeks, and I get really good medical and dental and shit. Score.
I'd totally call myself a sell-out, except for the fact that I can now pay for things like rent and food. I'm a complete sucker for ingesting sustenance and having a roof over my head, call me crazy.
I haven't worked a retail position in several years, and if there's one thing I am more aware of than ever, it's the fact that I am now middle-aged and not in the most primo physical condition of my life. I'm pretty sure my modeling days are behind me, man. My bones creak, my back aches, and my feet are in near-constant excruciating pain.
I'm not even exaggerating or making that up, I swear to all that is holy. Because I've been known to do that a time or two. But the last time I worked retail was when I was in my 20s, when I was taut and pretty and could party all night and still go in at 8 am, no coffee even needed.
But now I'm older and gray and saggy and, if I don't get 12 hours of sleep and have at least 3 cappuccinos by 8 am, I am fucking toast.
I digress, Holmes.
The one thing I'd forgotten about retail is how much people can truly suck pig shit. (I don't mean that literally, by the way, although there are times when I am tempted to tell an unruly customer to go eat at the trough across the street.) Granted, I have regular customers that I adore to pieces, whom I would actually welcome into my home for a bite to eat and some awesome political dialogue. We could debate Edward Snowden and the NSA over the 19 Rockstars I just sold them, and I'd steal some beef jerky from the store just for the hell of it.
This diary is not directed to those awesome customers, the ones who treat me like an angel and legitimately care about me, and my back, and my day. They certainly get that from me in return as well.
No. This is not for them.
This is for the pig assholes.
Without further ado ...
HOW NOT TO BEHAVE IN A GAS STATION!1. Do not throw your money at me. Or your credit card, or your traveler's cheques, or your ID. Jesus H. Christ on the internets, I am not your whipping boy. If you throw your money at me, I will make sure I take my own sweet time in giving you your change. I may even whistle a jaunty tune while doing so. I'm not a 25-year-old girl anymore, goddamnit, and that behavior is fucking unacceptable to this 40-something woman. Grow the fuck up.
July 4, 2013
2. If you spill coffee or soda on the floor, please do the gas station a huge ass favor by informing the attendant on duty. No need to be embarrassed - shit happens, no biggie. But that's a safety hazard, dude, and I don't want to be responsible for someone getting hurt. This goes double for you, vanilla Prime Times regular, who spilled coffee all over creation last week and didn't even tell me. Wtf!
3. For the love of Mike, treat the restroom like you would if you were at a friend's house. I have to clean your shit up, and yes, I do mean that literally. I've almost blown chunks twice because of you disgusting people. There is no reason to put the entire cheesewheel-style toilet paper roll in the crapper. If you can't get that unclogged, what the fuck makes you think I can?! I didn't bring my Superman cape in today, and Drano won't even work for that, you complete human abomination. And, while I'm at it here, don't pee on the floor, bleed in the sink, or tear off the entire paper towel dispenser just because you feel like it. Needles and blunts and cigarette wrappers on the floor do not impress me, either. I will remember you next time you come in, mark my words.
4. I can tell when you're drunk. And stoned. And high on coke and heroin and meth. You are not fooling anybody, Jack, and there is no fucking way in hell I'm going to sell you an 18-pack of Coors Light in your condition. I'm also writing down your license plate number, since you're a definite highway hazard.
5. We card everybody, and I mean everybody. This is not my goddamned rule, and arguing with me about it is not going to help your case, for fuck's sake. My boss does not give two shits if I refuse to sell to you, and I will if you piss me off enough. I work in the middle of the fucking night, and you think I make the rules around here? Gimme a break. Yes, I know it's ridiculous. Yes, I know it's ludicrous. Yes, I know you just turned 58 last week, but I'm 40-something and I work in a fucking gas station. Who do you really think got the short end of the stick here?!
6. You motherfuckers who smoke while you're pumping gas should be forced to take a remedial Things I Forgot I Learned in Kindergarten class.
7. No, I cannot fix the car wash when it is broken. I am not a car wash technician person, and I know having to drive around in your filthy BMW for another a few days will just wreck you emotionally, but you have to trust me on this: you do not want me to try to fix the car wash unless you want it more broken than it was before. A technician has been alerted to this travesty of justice. It'll be fixed when it is fixed and not before.
8. I realize that pump #13 is out of service, yes. I totally get that. That's why we put that funky, yellow DO NOT USE! plastic envelope thingee on the pump handle. I have no control over such things, and I empathize with the fact that #13 is your favorite pump and all, but I am not an arbiter of Fixing Everything That's Broken. Not my job, lady, I get paid crap. Let the professionals handle that shit.
9. I do not make the gas prices up out of thin air. I could tell you why they're so high, but that involves charts and graphs and an easel, and they provide none of those things at my gas station, I'm sorry.
10. I cannot handle your gambling addiction, man. Buying 25 scratch tickets over the course of an hour, and coming in the store to cash in every time you win a whopping two bucks (just to buy 2 more tickets, for fuck's sake) makes me feel like a Vegas casino dealer. I have other things to do that do not involve said addiction, Holmes. I have product to put away and other customers to help and the driveway to sweep, etc. etc. Please stop making me part of your problem, it makes me feel icky and unclean.
In general, everyone who has ever worked in customer service will tell you that they can immediately recognize their own customers who've worked in customer service as well. It's as obvious as my shift is long. If they're friendly and helpful and all-around cool, they've worked in customer service before. If they're rude and adamant and treat you like a servant, then they haven't. Fo' shiz, this is only generally speaking, but I've found it amazingly relevant in my own job. It's crazy how often this turns out to be true.
So, the next time you're in a gas station, please don't be a dick. The person behind the counter might actually turn out to be a politically astute chick with pig asshole issues.
P.S. Happy Independence Day, everybody!