An Ode to the Deli Counter Shitheads
Before I get into this short story about a pair of Jabba the Hutt looking ladies, a duo of cockroach-like aliens akin to the one from Men in Black impersonating two broads with what could only be described as a couple of partially melted down human body suits, I should first explain my level of hostility. I'm a server. To people who have worked in the restaurant industry, or any customer service industry, you've probably already smiled and rubbed your hands together with giddy anticipation. Yes, this is a story about asshole customers. If you're not of said industries, you may find the rest of this perturbing. Whatevs, fuckhead.
Day off, not trying to deal with some bullshit. We already made a decision on the soup well. Chicken tortellini by the way. Just the right amount of cream, mild difficulty in ladling out the actually tortellini part. Whatever, motor skills are a bitch. The cheeses didn't change much, but there was an extra sharp cheddar there that caught her eye. It turned out really well, by the way. I needed almonds, coconut water, a nectarine, and avocado's. Healthy shit, because I treat my body like a 9-5 temple. By the way, $2.99 for an avocado? I'd rather buy three snickers and say fuck my goals in economical peace, thank you very much. By the time I got back to the Deli Line where my girlfriend had placed an order, some shit had gone down.
Babe brings it to my attention that things had gone awry. I look around and automatically identify them. The two behemoths whom if you had to urban dictionary the term R.B.F., you'd see the search results glaring right back at you. Mad because every sample they had wasn't to their palettes liking. Mad because the plate wasn't split correctly. Mad because they had to walk seven feet to get their own utensils. Mad because their sandwich didn't come out quick enough. The space roaches mentioned above. As they walked away mumbling just loud enough that "this place is ridiculous," they should really have been left with a different moral quandary. In reality, they should have been frustrated with themselves.
It didn't take long for these dick-sucking shills to have articles written about just how badly they fucked the pooch on this line. Yet, ever since, this industry-diatribe rings louder than common sense. Class warfare exists between the servers, and the served. You're not talking to your neighbors, your fellow human beings. No; a divisible line now exists in the form of a counter, or an apron. These cunts act far more rudely to people, they don't even know, than they would ever feel comfortable acting toward anyone else based solely off of job title. "I want, you give." Not only are you to give, but you're to give based off whatever the circumstance. I don't give a fuck about laws you must uphold, inventory restrictions, policies, feasibility; FUCKING, GIVE ME.
In customer service, acting shitty is just as accepted as accidentally stepping on an ant. No love lost, no love found. These women were rude. Rude on a human to human interaction level. I don't live to serve you. They didn't wake up with you in mind. While it was their job to accommodate, it wasn't necessary to belittle and make wildly incorrect assumptions. I shouldn't have to get angry on their behalf, but I've been in their shoes far too often. I hate seeing a dude who could easily be a friend of mine, drag a heavy cart back and forth only to at one point be blocked by a bitch who can't help but look at him as "the help," and literally ask him if it is necessary to move. Of course it isn't necessary. Of course he will take the long way around. Because he did it the day before; when I first witnessed it. Because you are that important, and he isn't.