| LOPPING DOWN THE DOLLAR TREE A Sequel To "Falling Off The Dollar Tree" |
| Every softhearted, honest, efficient worker in the American economy, whether retail or fast food, public official or gravedigger, dreads of facing his or her worst nightmare: the anticustomer. The anticustomer is the epitome, nay, the dogmatic, horrifying physical embodiment of every aspect of a potential customer gone astray. The qualities of such an incredible misdemeanor of a person include, but are not limited to: ugliness, extreme hatred of anything within a 10-ft. radius, a lazy eye, total control of all the forces of chaos, demonic horns, the ability to say something sarcastic while remaining stern and people-hating, bad breath, the gift of cursing, the look of death, bad hair, the skill of seeming as if they were experiencing PMS (regardless of gender), dumbness, an uncanny sense of urgency, the art of embarrassment, and other amazing traits and characteristics. When I was trained as a "customer service specialist" at The Dollar Tree, I learned how to push the right buttons, count green pieces of paper with awkward men's faces printed on them, fill the soda cooler, catch thieves, locate products, empty trash bins, save the world, and blend in with the walls. Nothing was ever mentioned about how to deal with the anticustomer. No words of encouragement, sighs of dismay, or handbooks of stupidity were distributed. Therefore, when I encountered my first anticustomer after nearly a full, unblemished year of employment at "The Tree," I was stupefied, petrified, and mortified, all at the same time. Which sucked. Bad. I was just minding my own business, standing at attention behind my cash register, playing with my goatee and wondering when we would become privileged enough to have pinball and solitaire installed on our register computers. Suddenly, out of the depths of nothingness, a line of customers exploded. It merely started with a middle-aged man purchasing a two-pack of batteries, but then swirled into a maelstrom o' plenty, increasing the line more than tenfold in quasiseconds. I did my best to move the line along, but soon I realized it was beyond my control. My assistant manager was in the back office doing whatever it is managers do, and was my backup cashier during my shift in case I became trapped in the dilemma I was currently situated in. Thirteen customers stood patiently in line, understanding how difficult a job cashiering could be. They were the model customers, and they knew I was about to call my backup cashier up front to help dwindle the ever-growing line. I helped the angelic customers check out, made sure they received the correct change, and spoke encouraging, insightful words of wisdom and love advice to help them through their respective afternoons. "IS THERE ANOTHER PERSON WORKING THE REGISTERS?" I glanced up, fiddling with the register, hoping to see who had defiantly broken the well-greased system of customer courtesy. The fourteenth customer, a blonde woman in her 30's, stared at me ferociously as if I committed adultery with her daughter. She stood eight customers away from the paradise of checkout. I felt sorry for the people waiting in line for so long, especially with such an unspeakably stupid lady, and knew my assistant manager could respond to this flood of dollar-item consumers with the press of an intercom button. However, I refused to be used by such an unruly dame. "No, I'm sorry, ma'am. I'm the only one." She fired a look back that sliced my nametag into seven equal pieces. I started to panic, and wondered if she was potentially the anticustomer. I soon found out. "I MEAN, SERIOUSLY, YOU HAVE A HORSESH*T-LOAD OF A LOT OF PEOPLE IN LINE. ISN'T THERE ANYONE ELSE?" My ears flared to a shade of blood-red, and I glared at her with the intensity of a thousand mongeese. "Whoa," I heard one customer remark, amazed by the frustrated look upon my face. I attempted to keep ringing up items for the poor lad at my register, and continued to glare menacingly at the woman who was an obvious intruder against everything good and right. "A chocolate cream pie would be good right now," I thought. "Right in her face." Finally, after standing in line for approximately forty seconds (I timed it on my Timex watch), the anticustomer lost her anemically fragile patience and stormed out of the store. "FINE, I'LL COME BACK TOMORROW," she grumbled. Someone woke up on the wrong side of sense, I though to myself. My chess move had paid off to rid me of such an unbearable idiot, and I picked up the intercom phone and informed my assistant manager of the line. She emerged from the back, and, within minutes, the line had diminished to an unline. Customers I were ringing up shook their heads in sympathy, wondering aloud how a single human being could be so arrogantly rude. At that precise moment, I considered reversing my previous "Dollar Tree" conclusion that 99.9% of people, in general, are absolutely stupid. After all, thirteen of fourteen customers in my line had been courteous and respectful of the agonies of an everyday job. It was just the fourteenth lone customer who made my day go to Hades. With this, I reviewed my conclusion, and stumbled upon the following: 99.9% of people, in general, are absolutely yet pleasantly stupid. Oh, and I have to work tomorrow. |