The Douche

Sometimes you gotta work with douche-bags, as they are called. In general, I cater respect to the hard-working, productive members of my peers at work. Even the coolest, nicest, happiest people are treated with disdain if all they do is cause more work for other people, don’t do work themselves, and otherwise do nothing to benefit the workplace in financial ways. (Hard-working happy people will make everyone happy; happy people who do nothing generally just talk and stand.)

Douche is one of those people who tell head-cashiers how to do their job–even though he doesn’t know proper procedures. He leaves large, unsightly piles in front of the store for people who are busy actually helping customers,  telling them to put it away for him, so the clothes becomes an eyesore for anyone else who comes in. Consistently, he also asks for needless stock-checks for items we don’t even have, and shows his inability to even describe clothing accurately.

So today, the manager is trying to fill the floor with merchandise, and asks on the walkie-talkie, “Hey, can anyone tell me if the lace camisoles in tan and grey are marked on sale?”
Someone replies, “I’ll go look.”
“He’s standing right there,” I reply about the Douche, who is folding the lace camisoles.
There is silence.
The manager breaks the silence, “I’ll just look myself.”
Again the same person says, “I’ll go look.” So I go with him to the table the Douche is still standing, folding the lace camisoles. When we get there, I look at one of the tags to see if it’s on sale…
Douche instantly tells us, “The grey and tan are on sale, they’re all on sale.” He states this in his usual, sassy mightier-than-thou way. So obviously, he was listening to our entire conversation, uninterested in letting us distract his folding by even slightly helping us out, pressing a simple button to answer the manager’s question.
So I am left to say on the walkie-talkie, “Yes, they are all on sale.” I roll my eyes as I walk away. He truly is a piece of work.

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Men’s or Women’s?

I’m standing there marking-down products, and a woman calls out to me, she’s about fifteen-feet away.
“Hey, excuse me,” she waves at me, “Are these men’s or women’s?” She tugs on some pants hanging in front of her. Next to her, and around her, are women’s mannequins. There are dresses right next to her, and women’s cardigans and pink bermuda shorts. You can guess what gender these pants are for.
“Women’s,” I reply.
“These aren’t men’s? Are these men’s or women’s?”
“I said they are women’s pants.”
“So they are women’s? They aren’t men’s?”
“Those are women’s clothes.”
“Oh, so this isn’t men’s. This is women’s?”
“Yes. It is women’s.”
Really? Really.

Customer Type: The Riddler