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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Shoplifter: Backpacker

One day, as is usual, I start working and I find a shoplifter hard at work filling a bag with our clothes. Of course, no one is around and no one even sees them. Seriously, they act a certain way, and sadly, they look a certain way, it is kind of lame. These women before me are dressed like sloppy sluts, but weighing about a hundred pounds more–their string camisole is two sizes too small, allowing you to see the bra-strap underneath, with their stomach and sides showing; they wear tight, tight denim shorts and flip-flops (slippers) and even walk kind of like a duck and kind of like an orangutan. They seriously look like they’ve had too much to eat and too much to drink for several years in a row. To me,they stand out as much as a gothic trying to hide in the snow. Either way, while the shoplifter has her large, bulky, yet extra-small tank-topped body turned away from me, I sneak behind her. Yes, I can be a ninja, too! Beware as I glide silently wearing my Italian heeled-boots! Whoosh! I duck behind the whale-sized ninja.

I find her bag in a corner, which is actually one of our backpacks. She has almost completely filled it with pants and shirts. She’s folded them quite nicely, and has a pile of hangars nearby. She’s quite a packer, she must travel a lot, eh? Obviously, she’s been filling the bag for a while, and yet again, I sigh in disappointment with my coworkers–she must have been doing this for several minutes already. Can they at least look around? Look up from the cash-registers, come out, and walk around a little; don’t hide behind the wall of protection! Anyhow, I grab the bag and hide behind a pillar as she walks back to her hot spot. I glide away in a cloud of smoke. Poof, I am gone.

I leave the backpack at the counter, quickly walking back to her, to see how much the thief enjoys being stolen from. I ask how she’s doing. She mumbles something, and starts to leave. I tell her, “I have your bag at the counter if you need it.” When she doesn’t reply, and keeps walking, I say, “I’ll keep it on hold for you. I’ll remember you. Don’t you worry!”

One point for sales-ninja! Zero for the gaijin mochi-ball in a tank-top. *Sad face for you*

Gray Thing

A woman opens her fitting room door slightly, holding a balls up gray, cotton thing. She’s holding it inside the fitting room, and waving it in her fist. “Can you get me a Medium in this? They are right over there.” She points vaguely in the direction of our shirt collection, which has tank-tops, camisoles, t-shirts, and long-sleeved shirts all in that gray color. I try to grab it so I can get the right one, and she pulls her hand away saying she wants to keep this one. We play an odd game of dodge for a few seconds. Eventually, I have to pry it out of her fingers, telling her I can’t even tell what she’s holding because all I see is a gray mass. It turns out to be the gray tank top.

My recent journey to New York has given me a broader understanding on just how much people choose to be rude or respectful, but dumbness and ignorance is still irritating. I just had to share. I might need to blog about that later.