"Worst Customer Ever": A Retrospective

Hi everyone. As you know, it's drawing closer to memorial day, the time where we remember those who have been important to us. I figure this is as good a time as any to remember my personal "worst customer ever". So far, anyway. While I wouldn't consider her to be important to my life, persay, she certainly helped me become even more disillusioned with the state of our society. Read on.

It's late in the evening on a winter night, sometime this past January. I'm the only cashier (surprise, right?) and I'm standing at my register trying to look busy when this woman approaches me.
"Hi, how are you?" I ask, trying to be friendly. Why I still continue to try is beyond me.
At this point I notice that her purchase consists of three articles of clothing, which she has artfully taken the time to fold into a cube. No, I am not exaggerating - no clue how she did it, but these clothes were artfully folded all together like some sort of demented clothing origami. I can already tell I'm not going to be a fan of her.
In return to my friendly greeting, all she does is bark, "Don't mess it up," and motions to her cube.
"I'll do my best ma'am, but I need to find the tags if you want to buy these," I say as politely as I can muster. I'm met with another stony glare.

Somehow, I manage to painstakingly gain access to the tags without destroying her masterpiece. I think this warrants a thank-you, but all I get is some bitching about the prices.
"That was supposed to be 10-something," she snaps, grabbing my register screen and pulling it toward her.
"It is," I explained, "but it's 11 with the tax."
"No, it's supposed to be 10. I did the math," she argues, as if her obviously superior brainpower makes her some sort of divine being.
"In the state of Indiana," I say, trying my hardest not to raise my voice, "we have a 7% sales tax that applies to most purchases..."
"MA'AM," she interrupts. "MA'AM. NO. Stop talking!"

At this point I'm so angry I'm having trouble keeping my mouth shut. I take her cube and start putting it into a medium-sized bag, which, due to the compact nature of her origami, would fit perfectly.
As I do this, she grabs my arm and snaps, "NO. Don't be stupid. Put it in a big bag."
"Excuse me?" I say, rounding on her. I could say something nasty, but decide that silence and some well-placed destruction would be a much better weapon.
I lay the cube on the counter, tear it apart as much as I can, and throw it sloppily into the biggest bag I can find. She gawks at me, open-mouthed, as if she has just watched me brutally murder a busload of babies, puppies, and grandmothers all in one fell swoop. That's right, bitch. I messed up your cube.

As her receipt and coupons print, she starts tapping her foot impatiently. "Oh my God, HURRY UP!" she screams. I give her a concerned look resembling one might give to someone in a straitjacket, and begin moving as slowly as I can muster.
When her coupons print, there are about 20 of them, and I start slowly tearing them apart and putting them in a neat pile for her.
"GIVE THEM TO ME NOW!" she shrieks, and you can almost see the smoke coming out of her ears.
"Don't you want them torn apart and neat? I'm trying to help you," I say, at the end of my rope.
"I don't want them torn apart, JUST GIVE THEM TO ME!" she roars.
"With pleasure," I say, and throw the massive, unorganized pile of coupons at her face.

I suppose I should be used to people being this rude to me, but this bitch was just appalling. However, this town has been voted one of the rudest cities in America, and for good reason. Perhaps I was a bit out of line, since "the customer is always right", but she should've considered the well-being of her clothing cube before she called me stupid.

Creepy, crawly scumbags

Hi everyone. I apologize for the lack of posting - you can forward any complaints to my professors. However, in light of recent events, it's time to start blogging again, and the most recent, relevant topic in my retail career is the presence of what I lovingly refer to as "creepers".

Creepers. They walk among us, often undetected. However, because I am undeniably flypaper for freaks, I seem to attract an overwhelmingly large number of them. Tonight I'll discuss two of the more frightening creatures I've had the displeasure of encountering.

The first incident happened when I first began working at Hellmart. I was about 16, it was late at night, and I was the only cashier, when I was approached by a man in what looked to be his mid-50s. He was portly, balding, and absolutely repulsive looking, and the tattoos of cheetahs and serpents playing or fucking, or whatever, on his arms definitely didn't do him any justice. He saunters up to me and leans in close across the counter.
"Hey there gorgeous. When do you get off?" he drawls.
"Umm, later?" I reply sarcastically, hoping he'll get the hint. Surprise - he doesn't.
"How'd you like to go out for a drink with me after work?" he tries again, clearly not sensing my disinterest.
"Um, I'm 16," I reply coldly, hoping to set him straight. No such luck.
"Really? Well, you certainly look 21. You got a phone number I can have? I'll call you later."
At this point, I didn't care how rude or ridiculous I sounded - he had to go.
"I'm sorry, I don't believe in phones," I say, pouting a little for dramatic effect.
"Hmm." He scowls for a second, then still won't get the message. "You got an e-mail address or something?"
"Nope, I don't believe in e-mail either."
"Well damn, don't you like to have fun?" he winks at me.
"No, fun sucks. I hate fun," I say with a glare. I'm honestly surprised I was able to keep a straight face.
"Hmm. Well, I'll see you later," he says as he leaves, with an ominous look that, to be quite honest, freaked me the fuck out. It was several days before I would walk to my car alone at night. I saw him in the store a few more times, but he never spoke to me again.

 The next incident happened sometime last week. It was a similar situation - late at night, I'm the only cashier. Are we detecting a pattern here? Anyway, I've started wearing polos to work so maybe this kind of shit won't happen to me as much, but apparently even an increased amount of chest-covering fabric isn't enough to keep the creepers out.
I'm at my register, minding my own business, when a scrawny, white-trash crusty bastard approaches me. He's buying three bottles of pop, so I am relieved to notice that our encounter should be relatively short-lived.
As is customary, I offer him one of our store's loyalty cards, because I'll probably be waterboarded by management if I don't enroll a certain number of them. He gets one, probably so he can stare at my tits for five minutes longer, and I learn that his name is Randall. After spending a good few minutes eye-raping me, Randall gets his shit and leaves, and I'm like, 'Great! Good riddance! Buh-bye, Randall."

The following morning, I leisurely get out of bed and check my Facebook. There's a new friend request, and I think, "Hey! Maybe it's someone cool!" Nope - it's Randall.
Randall and I have no mutual friends. His profile picture is dark, grainy, and taken upwards, like he has a camera on his you-know-whats. He's included a personal message with his request: ";P"
How eloquent of you, Randall. What a way with words.
Whatever. Denied.

I don't get it. Yes, Randall, I enrolled you in our loyalty program last night. Fantastic. Congratulations. However, if you read the fine print, you will find that membership in this fine program does not entitle you to stalk me.
And I assume you're asking yourselves how he got my last name? Easy. He searched for all the Sams in my town and looked until he found my profile picture. This is no easy task, as there are over ten thousand of us in this town alone. But trust me, they do that. It has happened to me before.
So consider this my best attempt at a public service announcement. Creepers are everywhere and can strike at any time, even when you're wearing a polo.