Typical Conversations

Apron-wearers in customer service have a common understanding that with wearing an apron comes the tedious conversations that arise between worker and customer. Here are a simple few.

The Sandwich Artist Conversation. These can range from anywhere between inane ("So I decided to get this sandwich for my wife, because she's sick, you know. But I didn't want fast food. So I was driving from our house over on Rancho Santa Fe when I thought I'd stop at the gas station for some gas, and...") to the downright stupid. Here's a great Example:

"Hi, what can I get for you today?" I ask.

"How big is a six inch?"

"Six inches."

"I know, but how big is that?"

Sigh. "SIX inches."

Customer, growing agitated, says (with more oomph! this time), "But what does it look like?"

"It's three inches shorter than a nine inch roll and three inches bigger than a three inch roll."

"This is ridiculous!" the customer grunts, and walks away.

You see, if the customer had merely said, "Can you please show me what a six inch roll looks like?" then I would have more than happy to oblige. I gotta make my entertainment somehow.

Bookselling is world's different than making sandwiches, but there's no lack of idiots to deal with in the world of books. I find it ironic that people lack common sense in a book store, which is supposed to be the hub of intellectualism. But, alas, someone with something stupid to say always pops up.

"Hi, welcome to Bookstore Galore. Do you need help with anything?" I ask.

"Where's your non-fiction section?" the woman asks.

"It depends. What are you looking for?" I ask patiently.

"Just the non-fiction section."

"I realize that, but it depends on what kind of non-fiction you're looking for." As usual, my patience is wearing thin, but I trudge onward. "There are different kinds."

Frustrated because she has been confronted with her own ignorance yet, in typical customer fashion, she doesn't want to take fault for it, the customer says, "I don't know! Just non-fiction!"

I collect my wits about me, sigh, and say, "Miss, do you see that part of the bookstore over there?" I point exaggeratedly with one hand to a corner of the store.

"Yes."

"That's fiction. Those are the make-believe books. Everything else," I say, gesturing towards the rest of the store, "Is non-fiction. Religion, History, Self-Help, Knitting, How to Build a Porch...that's all non-fiction. So I need to know what you're looking for specifically in order to help you."

"Oh," the woman says. "I need a book on mathematics for kids."

If only the conversation had started out that way.

Bartending has its good moments. The money, I remember fondly, was always good. Even on a slow night I could bank 80 bucks for six hours of work, plus my hourly wage. People were generally cool, because they are in a bar to get drunk. It's when a patron passes that one-too-many marker when things get ugly.

"S, I need another drink," a patron says to me. We'll call him Bill. Bill is now glassy-eyed and smiling like a boy who had just lost his virginity -- confused but thrilled at the prospect of more.

"I don't know, Bill, you're looking like a hangover waiting to happen."

"I don't get hangovers," Bill declares.

"Really? Don't you remember about two hours ago we were talking about the hangover you had this morning?" I do try my best to be pragmatic about these situations.

"Oh. Yeah. But I've only had a few," Bill says sadly, sloshing the ice in his empty glass.

"A few means three, Bill. Eight is not a few."

"Did I really have eight of these?" Bill slurs. His eyelids have now begun to droop. Believe me, bartending is not Cheers. True life would be Cliff the mailmain teetering on his barstool with drool coming down his chin.

"You sure did. And you bitched at me each time that there wasn't enough bourbon in it."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"It's okay, Bill," I console him. As a bartender, that happens a lot.

"I promise to take a cab," Bill says with as much gusto as he can muster.

"I know you will. You gave me your keys four drinks ago."

"I did?"

"You did."

After a brief pause and a pathetic attempt to suck down the last watered down remnants from his glass, Bill says, "I'll make it worth your while."

"Oh?" I ask. It's probably pertinent to mention here that the bar in question is a gay bar and I am, at the time, the only male bartender on crew, and the only bartender on shift. I was like a bloodied corpse in a tank full of sharks. And as thrilling as a one-night stand might have been, there wasn't much excitment to be had with a sixty-year old dermatologist whose jowls looked like silly puddy and whose hands had more spots than a dalmation.

"I will...give you a hundred dollar tip!" Bill says, reaching for his wallet. The wallet fell on the floor and in trying to retrieve the wallet, Bill fell on the floor as well, where he proceeded to vomit and pass out.

When Bill finally came to and was dragged out to a cab by our local cabbie, he blew me a kiss and said, "Thanks for that extra drink!"

Good thing I had Bill's credit card on hand, for his tab. I was sure to add that $100 tip anyway; I figured I deserved it.

These, my dear readers, are only mere examples. These stories are only the tip of the iceberg. All in a day's work, I guess.