I have to get a new job. I can’t deal with this one anymore. I’m on the bus right now on my way there, and all I want to do is blow the bus up and escape in the confusion.
I’ll try applying at comic book shops. I know the clientele is still going to be comprised largely of hygienically challenged mouthbreathers, but I’m hoping my love of comics will at least partially make up for that.
Wish me luck, I guess.
Oh you’re a regular customer? You buy cigarettes all the time? Too bad you look exactly like every other white trash bitch in her late 20s.
Just pull your ID out of your god damned purse so we can be rid of each other already.
Get off work at 7:10 AM.
Bus comes at ~7:45 AM.
Get home around 8:50-9:00 AM. It’s now nine in the fucking morning. The day has well and truly begun. Options: Sleep and wake up at about 4:00 PM, -or- stay up all day and crash in the early evening.
Factor: My next shift starts tomorrow at 2:00 PM because my schedule switches from graveyard shift to swing shift halfway through the week. This is my day off. On my day off I get home from work at 9:00 AM, exhausted.
I don’t want to sleep through my day fucking off, so I elect the stay up option. Backfire: Since I haven’t slept it just feels like one long work-day, and now that I have slept, I work again this afternoon. Behold the astonishing vanishing day off.
This kind of shit depresses me on a massive scale.
A dream that I work in a convenience store. Oh wait that’s a nightmare oh wait its just true.
Oh yeah, some jackoff came in and bought three grape flavored cigarillos. He came back in with one of them opened, wanting to exchange all three for another flavor, because the one he’d opened was stale. Well, that’s impossible, because 1. It’s a tobacco product and we don’t do returns on those. Like, ever apparently? And 2. He’d opened it. This was a wrapperless cigar that could have come from anywhere. Of course I believe it was the same one he’d just bought, but what I believe and don’t believe has pretty much nothing at all to do with either corporate policy or the letter of the actual goddamned law.
Bear in mind, he’d paid full price for a defective product he now couldn’t return. I was sympathetic.
I even said at one point, “Look, I feel for you. I really do, but-“
“I don’t care about that!” he interrupted, because it is always his turn to speak, because Because. “This is about my money.”
I switched his two still-wrapped ones for some fresher ones of another flavor, but the world clearly owed this douche-bucket for the incredible chip which obscured his shoulder from view.
Mind you, I have a line, and this fuckwit just cut in front of everyone to fight a battle I’ve already told him was lost the moment he peeled the wrapper open.
The moron obviously didn’t understand that this wasn’t some mom & pop neighborhood store, but a corporate fucking chain, despite the fact that I told him this, and that I was literally the lowest ranking type of employee in the company.
When another customer suggested complaining to the manager in the morning, he copped a giant hairy attitude with her, and then even after getting part of what he wanted (two fresh cigarillos) he mouthed off to the other customer on his way out, saying shit like, “Mind your own business” and “If you’re in such a hurry go to another store.”
So before he got the door shut behind him, I shouted, “Don’t come back!”
Naturally this got his attention, and he came back in for some kind of ‘say-that-to-my-face’ routine.
“I’m saying you’re no longer welcome in this store.”
So he starts complaining about his fucking cigarillos again, and I said, “This isn’t about your cigars! You can’t treat other customers with a bunch of attitude and expect to continue being a customer yourself!”
But of course that couldn’t possibly be it, so he said some other shit about defective product, basically more of the same garbage nonsense that had nothing to do with me or anyone present, aside from the fact that we evidently held the same outstanding debt towards him, in his imagination, and I was like, “You’re not welcome in here! Get out already!”
And he seriously said, “Its probably because I’m black, ‘cause this is Oregon.”
To which all I could manage was shouting, “OH FOR FUCK’S SAKE!”
Believing he sensed some kind of opportunity or…something… he goes, “Oh so you can talk like that to me with customers present, but I can’t ask without swearing for my money back on a defective product!?”
And I said something like, “JUST GO” or “GET OUT” or something, and he finally left but not before leaving us all with the final gem of, “Y’all’s racist. And you’re a wierdo.” and as the door closed, a final faded “Faggot!”
To that guy:
You want to talk about money? Alright, if you get what you want tonight, I lose my job. Oh look, now we’re talking about my money. My entire income, in fact. That means all my money, food I eat, and the place I live.
Alright, now of the two of us, who can afford the respective loss?
This is easy: It’s Saturday night, what are you doing? Partying out on the night with some friends, some bitches, and your three (oh, excuse me, two) cigarillos. (Hmm, what’re all these piles of discarded tobacco in the parking lot, next to Swisher wrappers? It’s almost as if someone bought a bunch of cigars just to empty them out.) I think it’s safe to assume you have disposable income enough to buy weed as well.
And do you think if I could afford to be ANYWHERE ELSE, that I would be here behind this counter in the middle of the night on a weekend listening to your stupid ass whine and stomp your feet about your buck and a half?
You want to talk about money? You fucking lose.
Oh! The Race Card? You’re gonna play the Race Card! Really?!
I’m Native American, dipshit. You lose the Race play and this entire fucking argument.
The American Civil Rights movement is not about your dollar fucking fifty-nine. People haven’t fought and fucking died in race-riots so you could be a fully grown, adult spoiled brat at the convenience store on Saturday night. That’s not why Dr. King was fucking shot, you ignorant little prick, and the only reason you think you get to stand there and cheapen that struggle for your petty bullshit, is because there’s not another black person in the store to call it a bitch move.
Now get the fuck out of the store or I will have to call the Portland Police, and I don’t want to do that because you’re black and I really don’t need your death on my fucking conscience.
Okay, listen. Tranny. I don’t give a shit what gender your ID says your are. Just go out to your car and get it. I don’t give a shit what gender you think you are, or want to be. I give a shit about not getting fired, which includes selling you cigarettes, which includes getting proof of your age. You can bitch all you want ‘til you turn blue in the face, asphyxiate and die, that you’re “Thirty-five fucking years old” but until you prove it you’re not getting your smokes. If you’re so old, try growing the fuck up.
Oh yeah, and I know why you were so hesitant to show me your ID. I know why you petulantly threw it on the counter and it makes me fucking laugh.
Oh no! Now he’ll know I’m not really a woman. NO SHIT. YOU LOOK LIKE A DUDE, DUDE. GET OVER IT. The world does not revolve around your fucking genitals. Deal with yourself.
Who’s next?
I’m going to try not to mention which one specifically, because I probably signed something that said I wouldn’t when they hired me.
But I might slip and say the name because it carries so much filth and venom in its very utterance. It’s like a dirty word, or a disparaging name.
Anyway this is my self-imposed therapy because I working in a fucking convenience store. I’ll make some real posts when I get home from work at 8:00 in the motherbuttfucking ante-meridian.
