Letters to People I Hate

Dear overbearing customer,

A few days ago I was working a morning shift at the front register. You had about 30 kids books from the used section you wanted to purchase. I knew it would take a while to ring everything up, but you smiled and seemed nice. I didn’t think there would be any problems. Wrong.

You see, our system requires more steps to ring up a used book than to ring up a regularly priced book. Regular book? One sweep over the scanner and a beep. Done. Used book? Two sweeps over the scanner, two slightly different beeps, type in the code, type in the price. Repeat 30 times. You didn’t seem to like this process. Neither do I. But, I’m used to it and I can’t do anything to change it, so I’ve accepted the it. You weren’t very accepting.

I double swiped the first book and as I was typing in the necessary info I saw you give me an odd look. I’ve seen that look in many an irritating customers’ eyes. It says, “Why did you scan that twice? Are you charging me double?” I know the look says this because sometimes they say it out loud as well. Then I have to try to explain the process, usually with a forced laugh at the end.

“Oh, we have to scan them twice, it only goes in the register once though.” Smile. Hate. Subtle eye roll if they look away.

I know how to do my job, yes I make a mistake every once in a while, but give me some credit. Granted, you didn’t ask why I was scanning twice, you just disapproved with your eyes. My co-worker didn’t have anyone to ring up so she got two large handle bags to start bagging as I scanned. Two people helping you wasn’t enough. You started fidgeting with the books. You straightened the two piles remaining in front of you. You sighed. You told me you were a teacher and wanted the discount. Great.

I had you fill out the form and hoped it would keep you occupied. It did, but not for long. In the mean time my co-worker rang up another customer, finished the transaction, bagged their books and gave them their receipt. I was still helping you. You didn’t like this. My goodness, you were here first, you should leave first. Your eyes said it all.

You started handing me books. As I reached to pick one off the counter, you would try to put it in my hand. We did not make a good team, I would never want you to pass me a baton in a race. There are no summer Olympics in our future. I tried to speed up the process but I can only go as quickly as the register does. It is what scientists would call the “rate limiting step”; it is old, more than a little filthy, and needs to finish one step before beginning another. Which means I have to pause sometimes and let it catch up to my furious typing.

You were ready to pay. You had your card out in your non-book-shoving hand and were itching to hand it to me as well. As soon as I gave you the total you rammed it into my hand. Thank you. I swiped and typed and waiting on the card machine to pump out its receipt. My co-worker was back to bagging your books, trying valiantly to get you off my hands as quickly as possible. As I handed you back you card, gracefully might I add, you finally spoke up.

“Don’t I get a receipt?”

Of course you do. Did you see a receipt print from the machine? Did you see me snatch it away and hide it under the counter? Did I crumple it into a ball and throw it over my shoulder? Did I set it on fire and laugh maniacally? No. It was still in the old, dusty register. And you still had to sign the copy from the card machine I had placed in front of you next to the pen. I told you the receipt was coming and you ignored me. You looked my co-worker in the eye and said, “It was a lot of looks, I’ll need two bags.”

She raised her eyebrows and smirked a bit, “I gave you-“

“Oh,” you interrupted, leaning over the counter and peering at the bags. “You did.”

I handed you the coveted receipt and she brought your two bags around the counter. You didn’t say thank you. With one bag in each hand you shuffled toward the door. I expect more gratitude next time; with the low used book prices and the teachers’ discount you paid about $1.50 a book. That is a damn good price and worth a much longer wait. Maybe next time I see you I will destroy your receipt. Then I’ll glare at you and shuffle off, muttering about customer service.

Sincerely,

Kelly

Dear lying teachers,

You are not sly or sneaky. We have a 20% discount for teachers on books they use in the classroom. We do this because we like teachers and we know they don’t make much money. However, we don’t like teachers like you. I know you want to read books for personal enjoyment, but you’ll have to pay full price. Don’t try to weasel your way out of it. I know when you are lying.

You and your two friends came up to the register together. Your first friend only had a book from the book group table (already discounted 20% - more on crazy book group people later) so she was okay. While I rang her up you and your other friend were whispering away. I caught the words “tell” “teacher” and “discount”. Your friend looked nervous and more than a little uncomfortable. Her eyes shot to the floor when I asked who was next. You approached the register and handed over your book group book and another book.

“I’m a teacher,” you exclaimed proudly.

“Okay,” I said. “Are you using this book in the classroom?” I touched the cover of your second book, Things Good Mothers Know.

“All the books in the store apply for the discount now,” you haughtily informed me. Yes, I know that. I work here. I smiled an icy smile.

“That’s true the discount applies to any book in the store that you will be using in the classroom.” You stared at me, not speaking. “Is this book for the classroom?” I repeated.

“Well, I guess it is then,” you said with a grin. Liar.

As I rang you up, with discount since we aren’t supposed to accuse the customers of lying, you turned back to your friend. There was another hurried whisper fest between the two of you. You’re a teacher. If you are any good at your job you’ve seen back-of-the-classroom conspiratorial whispering. It’s obvious, the quick looks at the person your talking about, the conniving tone. Plus, you’re bad at it. I was only standing four feet from you. I know you told her to say her book was for the classroom when we asked. Like, OMG, we’re gonna totally ask about it. Eye roll.

As I went through the usual ringing up motions, you drew out the lie by talking about how you do mother the kids in your classroom. Ha ha, you laughed. We mother them more than we should. More forced laughter. Your awkward stilted conversation was not helping. I gave you the damn discount. Stop trying to prove you are these poor kids surrogate mother by talking about how one of them has no snow pants and no one is buying them any. Buy the kid some snow pants and I’ll give you a discount on whatever you want. Now go away.

You paid and went over to your first friend by the doors, leaving your nervous friend to fend for herself. My co-worker rang up her purchases. When asked if the same Good Mothers book was for the classroom, she balked. “Well, I don’t know. Maybe. I mean, I won’t be using it yet.” She stammered. No discount for her. Good.

Later I looked up your “classroom purchase”. It was a self-improvement book. It encourages readers “to attend to their own happiness in the quest to become better mothers.” Sure, you’re not really a mother, but if getting a classroom discount on your personal reading makes you happy, it sounds like you’ve got the book’s instructions down already. Too bad you can’t follow ours.

Sincerely,

Kelly