This is Garbage

It happened again. A simple attempt to exchange goods and services, in this case groceries, for valuable consideration, money, has resulted in in a heated exchange where a cashier tells me I can’t give the host company my money because I have violated some condition or rule, and the rule must stand. The company in question is ACME in Cuyahoga Falls, Ohio, and the problem was that I didn’t have my shopper’s card and asked the cashier to use a courtesy card to ring my order. Cards can be looked up by phone number, but for some reason my number never shows up on their system. After insisting the number would call up my account, and then entering it, my account did not come up...just as I said.

So often recently I’ve been condescended to in this way that even I am starting to wonder if I’m the bad guy for trying to buy things at a store. I mean, how dare I just waltz in and expect people to accept my money for the wares that appear to be on offer to all? And why would a cashier accept my claim that my number is not in the system, tho I have been a customer for almost 30 years?

But there is a trend here that I noticed today, and this secondary circumstance may be what is leading to the increased conflicts I’ve been having in trying to get customer service. There appear to be more older women returning to the workforce, doing basic work like cashiering, and probably making a basic hourly wage.

Why all these older women are reentering the workforce I do not know, but I suspect it must be a difficult transition to the working world from the isolated monarchy most older women tend to preside over at home. I’ve said it before, but it bears repeating, that men are easy. If you’ve been married to a man for decades, either you are a terrific woman to live with, or your husband has long ago decided to go along to get along. If you’ve been getting your way at home for as long as you can remember, your husband is a henpecked mouse. If he’s still around, that is.

Maybe one day your husband reached his limit on listening to your yap, and he went down to the workshop and ate his gun. Maybe he went out for a pack of smokes one day and never returned. Maybe he started believing he was the worthless ne’er-do-well you’ve always said he was and lost the ability to drag himself out day after day earning enough to keep a roof over your head. I don’t know, but all these silly old women in the workforce have to learn that in order to pry the money away from customers- the money from which your paycheck is derived- you may have to be the one who eats shit every now and then.

You can’t insult me, tell me that I’m wrong, stubbornly refuse to back down, and cause me to leave without buying and expect to last at a job. Not at any job. I as customer would gladly scan and bag my own items rather than having some snotty old broad make shopping a battle of wills. I don’t beg people to take my money, and jobs are scarce enough recently that I won’t think twice about throwing a huge fit, and even heading home to officially complain about you to your company and the world at large. trust me on this.

Luckily it's me having this conflict with you and not my brother, because he tends to solve things with his fists. But I let everyone in the entire store know today that the cashier didn’t want to take my money. They probably don’t care, but truthfully I don’t care either. I was pissed, sure. All I wanted to do was give my money for a few groceries. But don’t think I care about you, Mrs Smug Cashier, at all. At ALL. I could care less whether you live or die. A week from now after you’ve blown it with one too many customers and been fired, I wouldn’t be able to identify your body at the bottom of the overpass you’ve hurled yourself over. Your husband and his new girlfriend will turn off the tv and climb into bed just before your death is mentioned on the local news, and some eager 20-year-old will become my new favorite cashier by always saying yes to my basic requests for customer service.

Of course, you are not reading this because you are sure you were right and will spend the next few days reminding your coworkers how awful I was and how correct and even righteous you were. That alone will get you fired, or “let go” at the first opportunity, so I needn’t bother pursuing my complaint. And I freely admit I was and am an unreasonable and hostile unpleasant asshole.

You shouldn’t have to put up with customers like me in order to survive. Better to be poor and righteous. There’s a term for that: Dead Right.