...you know, at first I thought you were going to rant specifically about "things that piss you off," ie you were going to rant about us ranting. Honestly, I am a bit disappointed.
But no, customer service always, ALWAYS seems to attract that 1% of retarded Americans who exist solely to make life harder for everybody else, no?
I had myself (work at a gas station, you see) a guy a month or two back who--well, let me rewind. I was helping out a regular customer - let's call her Amy, and she happened to be really cute, but that's another matter entirely - and my coworker was helping someone else on the other register. The aforementioned guy - let's call him Brian, though he looks like perhaps a Paul with a bit of Dan mixed in, but what his real name is, I don't fully care - waits behind my coworker's register for a bit, comes to mine while I'm still helping Amy. As we're talking and I'm ringing her items up, he slaps down $60, says, "Put that on pump 3 for me," and leaves.
I and Amy give him an odd look, I shrug, and we continue our transaction. As soon as that's finished, I hurriedly try to get his request in, but as it turns out, I accidentally put the $60 on the wrong pump. Through the window and through the door, I can see him getting agitated and hear him cursing up a storm, his eyes trained squarely on me. I shrug, not thinking much of it - because who am I to care if he has to wait a bit? - and quickly switch the payment to his pump.
The same moment I switch it over, he storms in and states, very matter-of-factly, "You gonna turn on my pump? Maybe if you weren't busy staring at some girl, you could actually help people." Let's ignore the fact that he was partially correct - Amy WAS very cute, as I mentioned before, as well as charming, but I have enough professional integrity to know how to do my job (and, unfortunately, she also has a boyfriend whom she clearly loves very much and who clearly loves her back). Let's ignore the fact, too, that he had interrupted us in the middle of our transaction, and let's ignore the fact that it was only common courtesy for me to finish with Amy before moving on to help him.
Ignoring those facts, I tell him as calmly as I can, "Sir, I put it on the wrong pump. That was my fault. It's been switched over now. You can go ahead and pump." He gives me that glare a simpleton might give to an educated man who chooses to drink a draft beer instead of moonshine made with distilled harpy's blood and the fermented watery contents of a spare tire... or to make the analogy better fit this audience, he gives me the glare that a prototype Zaku I might give to a Zaku II who keeps throwing the firecrackers at the enemy and doesn't understand that you're supposed to hold onto them and run around going, "Wheeeeee," and exits the store to pump his gas.
A few minutes later, my coworker goes outside to help another customer with a propane tank exchange, and Brian turns his attention to him. Some rather crude words seem to issue forth from his mouth, and I have the intense urge to shut off his pump, give him his change, and tell him to take his business elsewhere. However, my coworker returns unscathed and we wait patiently for him to finish pumping his gas.
While he's pumping, Amy returns - she purchased the wrong pack of cigarettes, apparently - and we talk a bit more. She mentions something about Michael Jackson and "Man in the Mirror," I sing what little of the refrain I know, and we have a good laugh, partly at my bad rendition and partly at the fact that it's Michael Jackson and you just can't go wrong with Michael Jackson even if you sound like a mule trapped in a sound room with three sheep and a porcupine. Then she leaves as Brian finishes pumping, and he comes in, still irate. By now, I figure it's all behind us, he must have gotten whatever stick was plugging his colon out, so I ask, in my usual merchant-y humor, "Got some change coming back to you, eh?"
"Maybe if you weren't distracted by a pair of tits, you'd be able to do your job," is the response, and I am, to say the least, flabbergasted. To be more succinct, however, I suppose I should admit that I am pissed right the fuck off.
"Look, sir, you should have waited your turn. You came in and threw your money down on the counter while I was helping that 'pair of tits.' And I still tried to help you out, and I put it on the wrong pump, and I apologized for it. Now here's your change, and you can take your business elsewhere. I don't want to see you here again." This I say between angry comments and sarcastic retorts.
"I know your boss," Brian replies.
"I know him, too," I answer.
"You're the employee, I'm the customer. Just do your job." And, saying that, he leaves. I suppose it was his way of coming out on top - having the final word, if you will - but if that's what it took for him to feel like a man, then that was fine by me.
He had a large schooner trailing behind his truck, though, so perhaps it's more accurate to just call him a ponce. A large and impatient ponce.
I have yet to see him return, and I am a bit disappointed by that fact. I would have liked to finish our conversation, and if things were to lead to some sort of physical altercation, well, then by Jove, I think I would make peace with my conscience and would have no objection to that.