Customers Suck: Coffee, and A Cup of Clam Chowder.
I’ve made a few changes to my layout — thanks go to Martijn ten Napel for the original layout, which was extremely purple. I made it signifigantly less purple, which I think we can all agree, is a good thing.
Also, over on the right-side menu, there, you can see a spot labeled “categories”, which is still under construction. Eventually, it’ll have all my posts “tagged”. For referance, like. Right.
A couple of days ago at The Restaurant Where I Work(TM), I had an old guy and his daughter come up to the register, to pay. I had just gotten to work, and they’d been there before me, so I hadn’t really dealt with them at all.
The old guy pays me, and then asks what was on his bill. I start to answer, “A cup of –”
I get cut off. “It should have been blahblahblahgrowlsnort!”
“Well, it was –”
“Grumblegrumblegrowlshoutsnort What was on it!”
“Yes, it was –”
The old man starts to cut me off again, and finally his daughter, no spring chicken herself, intervenes. “Go ahead.” She tells me.
“It was a cup of soup, and a senior drink.” I answer. That’s what the bill has printed on it — it doesn’t say what kind of drink, or soup.
“I had a cup of clam chowder and a coffee!” The old man exclaims, almost shouting.
“Yes.” I agree. “A cup of soup and a senior drink.” I point to the bill, nodding.
“I said it was a cup of clam chowder and a cup of coffee!” Now the old man is shouting.
I start to agree, and explain, yes, that’s what I said, this is just how it’s printed on the bill, yaddayaddayadda, and he cuts me off again.
“I said, a cup of clam chowder! And a coffee! You say what I told you to say! You say it!”
I blink, thinking, Shoot, he’s crazy. “Well, you have a nice night now, and thanks for coming in. Good-bye!” I smile, turn around, and beat feet, leaving the old man shouting after me about his coffee and clam chowder. The daughter finally corrals him and wrangles him out the door.
Now, I know this old man was probably early-stage Alzheimer’s, or senile, and his shouting at me probably wasn’t really his fault. I’ve read that with early-stage Alzheimer’s, sufferers even know they’re acting badly, but can’t stop themselves. That’s why it’s such a scary damn disease.
But, y’know, I’m still not going to stand up there and smile while he yells at me over wording. Knowing it’s not his fault, I’m not going to yell back or tell him off, but I’m not going to get hollared at over semantics, either.
Of course, he could have just been an old asshole, too. Heh.
