Anchored

As a cashier, there’s a certain kind of rapport you develop with your customers. I think I can speak for cashiers as a whole, when I say that we genuinely want the customer to have a good experience with you and your place of employment. Unfortunately, I think can speak for all of us again when I say that sometimes, it doesn’t always work that way.

In my experience, a whopping five years slaving away in a tourist trap, there’s a whole spectrum of outcomes when it comes to your customers. There also two very extreme ends of the spectrum. One being the kind of person who seems to accept you into their immediate family because you happen to be exchanging their hard-earned money for an incredibly overpriced souvenir that their daughter/sister/spouse/friend of a friend of a friend is going to “just love.”

I’ve had a fair share of customers like this. They’re the kind that buy a birthday card and have to explain that it’s for their forty-something-year-old brother who absolutely adores frogs and, I’m merely inferring this but, might be a functioning alcoholic, so they just had to get him the card with the tree frog sitting in the martini glass. The wedding card section also sits dangerously close to the card room register, so when I happen to be scheduled in this room, I hear a lot of unnecessary explanations from proud mothers who are buying a card for their daughter and “oh, yes, her wedding is going to be at the vineyard! I certainly hope the rain will hold out! Do you think it will hold out?”

Sometimes, I wish I had something more substantial to say than, “I don’t know.” Then, I remember that, outside of being paid to listen to you, I really couldn’t care less.

As you travel a little bit away from this spectrum, you’ll find the category of people who walk around the store having personal conversations as though nobody else can hear them. Sure, they might be the only ones in the room, save for me. But they seem to forget that I have ears, or that my paycheck only really keeps me from speaking my judgment aloud. And, yes, I really do find it strange that you collect squirrel ornaments.

On the opposite end, you get the other kind of customers. These customers are so vicious that you’re sure they were spawned by Satan himself in the depths of a private sector of hell reserved just for you. They were put on this earth to make your life miserable, and they do so with great intent. I’d much rather have my costumers adopt me as their third child than deal with these unappeasable jerks. These are the kind of people who come into the store looking for a fight. They live in their own little bowl, swimming around like a shiny, special goldfish, who somehow managed to live in their own little world where their actions have no consequences and the only people important to them are the ones who feed them. Cashiers don’t often fall under that category.

The title “cashier,” especially in a tourist town catering to upper-middle class visitors, is often synonymous with “second-class citizen” or “change monkey.” The customers-from-hell care even less about you than you do them, but the difference is this: these people don’t care how much you try to please them. It is never going to be good enough for them. They will berate you. They will throw money at you. They will tell you exactly what they think, and they’ll think it’s a-okay just because they paid $5.50 for two conch shells. The worst part about this is that we can’t do a single thing about it. My best shot at revenge is putting their receipt in the bag without asking if they wanted it there, and even that’s a 50/50 chance at ultimate displeasure. When you don’t give these people exactly what they want, when they want it, they’re usually outraged because they did you such a favor. Here’s some examples:

“I am a paying customer!”

“I have been coming to this store for years!”

“I bring all my friends into this store when they come down, and this is, by far, the worst service I’ve ever had!”

And my favorite from the summer of 2013:

“You know, we’re doing you a real favor coming down here after hurricane Sandy!”

Which is really funny, because Sandy didn’t do any damage. Further north, the monster hurricane tore apart boardwalks and practically turned Seaside Heights into Atlantis. All we got was some flooding. Some people lost a few trees. So, really, all I can do is laugh when somebody thinks I care that they’re helping repair some kind of damage we didn’t even have in the first place.

Today, however, my customer didn’t even have an excuse. Her story was just plain, old entitlement. Really, hands down, my favorite to deal with. Usually, I can muster up a little sympathy when I promise a customer gift-wrapping and the store gets crowded, and I’m usually a very tolerant and understanding person, but I told her from the beginning to this woman that I might be a little slow.

“The store’s pretty busy today, so it might take a little while. You can leave and pick them up later, if you’d like,” I explained after she asked me to gift wrap three Dang-It Dolls for her.

Dang-It Dolls are these really nifty little dolls that sort of look like voodoo dolls. You probably could use them as voodoo dolls if you really wanted to, but really, the sole purpose of these dolls was so that the owner had something to whack the stuffing out of when they got mad. Best of all, they came in cute, soothing patterns like polka dots or floral. The irony of all this was that I was about to sell three of them, when, really, I could’ve used three myself.

“Oh, that’s fine,” the customer replied in a nasally, stereotypical New York accent. Her skin was orange, and her hair was black—the poster-child for the inevitable MTV reboot of Jersey Shore. “My husband and I are gonna go to this restaurant—“ I had to fight my eye from twitching every time her chewing gum popped between words. “And then, we’re gonna go to the car, and then, we’re heading home, so, like, I can’t really do that.”

I drew a deep breath and replenished my fading smile. “Okay. Let me get started on these, then.”

I put the first two in preassembled boxes that I dug out from behind the register area. The third would have to put together, so I’d hold off for now. I took the first box a few feet away to the wrapping station and measured out exactly enough gleaming, navy blue wrapping paper to fit. I followed the “fold and crease” method taught to me when I’d first started here and produced a perfectly wrapped box, topped with white ribbon advertising the store’s name, in a matter of minutes. I quickly moved onto the next and stuck both finished boxes up on the counter. I reached down and pulled out a third box, and I began popped it open and inserting tabs.

“The gift-wrapping just makes it so much more special, doesn’t it?” the customer asked.

“Oh, yeah,” I agreed heartily, nodding, though I wondered what kind of extravagant lifestyle this woman led if she was having souvenirs gift-wrapped when she clearly didn’t plan on giving them for any sort of occasion. Of course, if the glittering gold watch on her wrist (or the fact that her husband paid in solely hundred dollar bills) was any indicator, I’d immediately place her in the upper tax bracket. I was never one to assume, but everything about her screamed, “Look at how much richer I am than you!”

I managed to get the doll and some tissue paper inside the box when the very problem I’d feared appeared right in front of me: a line of customers. Dread dried up my mouth, and I swallowed as two more women filed in, holding stacks of cards. I knew all along that this was going to happen. I’d known the store was busy; the gray skies had driven everyone off the beach. Getting two boxes wrapped had been generous, and now, I was faced with a dilemma—ignore both store policy and the customers to finish wrapping the last gift, or wait on the people standing in line.

My eyes glanced up at the round, black cameras stuck into the ceilings, right above the register. My bosses were back from their vacation to Montreal, and one of them had passed through not too long ago. If I didn’t take care of the line, quickly, I knew he’d be down any minute to ask me what the hell I thought I was doing.

With a lump in my throat, I looked to the short, middle-aged woman standing nearby and asked, “Are you all set, then?”

My previous customer finally glanced up from her phone and pushed aside her purse to make room on the counter, and relief immediately washed over me at the lack of a reaction. I hurried as quickly as I could without forgetting to give the customers the correct change, telling them about our special discount promotion, and wishing them a nice day. I got through three customers in a flash. The fourth was standing in the aisle, a slightly uncomfortable distance away, glancing around like she didn’t know what to do.

“Are you ready to check out?” I asked her.

Blinking, the graying woman adjusted her glasses and approached the counter. “Yes, sorry,” she apologized with a small laugh. “I wasn’t sure if you were waiting on her or not—“ She casually motioned to the New Yorker on her phone, and that was when it happened.

Her head shot up, and she huffed, “Well, apparently, I keep getting pushed to the side for everyone else!”

The other customer’s eyes widened, and before anything else could be said, I jumped in, “Miss, I’m sorry, but it’s store policy that I wait on the other customers. Gift-wrapping is a free service we offer, so it doesn’t take precedent over everything else.”

“Well, there are five other freakin’ registers in the store!” she snapped at me.

“And I’m not authorized to ask them to use those,” I explained, trying to keep my cool even though the shakes had set in, and all of my muscles were quivering with heat and tension.

I continued ringing up a now very frightened customer as the Queen of Entitlement continued her display of superiority. “When you’re done with her, can you finish my gift-wrapping?”

Calmly, I answered, “When the line is finished, I will gladly finish your gift-wrapping.”

I took one more customer after that, and once I was in the clear, I took the last box to the wrapping station, avoiding eye contact with the jerk at the counter. As I was tying the ribbon, my co-worker, a seventeen-year-old with curly blonde hair named Elle, came back with a red plastic bin full of Dang-It Dolls.

“Elle,” I sighed quietly.

“Yeah, Leah?” she asked.

“Can you get those two boxes on the counter in a bag for me, please?”

“Sure,” Elle said. Paper rustled as she unfolded one of our thick, eco-friendly shopping bags and started getting everything squared away.

Moments later, I cut the ends of the ribbon and loaded the third box into the bag. I lifted up onto the counter, and the customer went, “Thanks!” as though everything was suddenly solved now that she’d gotten what she wanted.

“No problem,” I said. Usually, I’d wish my customers to have a great day, but she didn’t seem to give two shits about my day, so why should I have cared about hers?

As she exited, I really wanted to tell her to have a safe trip home and never come back, but I wasn’t nearly as bold as my ill-tempered conscience.

Elle smiled sympathetically and pulled the red tub across the counter. “This should cheer you up,” she told me. “I know how much you love pricing.”

“Passes the time, anyway,” I mumbled. “Thanks.”

She set the tag gun on the counter and nodded. “Anytime. Laura said you can put those out when you’re done,” Elle added. Then, she went back to her post behind the jewelry counter in the front room.

I pulled a doll out of the bin and clutched the gun in my right hand. I pierced the metal barb through the doll’s head, right at his yarn-crafted hairline. When I pulled the trigger, it clicked, and a plastic hook now hung from the doll’s head. After the fifth doll, I realized there was something more cathartic about stabbing the doll in the head than whacking it against a table. I did this until the end of my shift rolled around at 5 o’clock. I burst out of the store and onto the crowded street mall, my town’s biggest tourist attraction, and immediately called my best friend, Reid, to tell him what happened.

“You’re kidding!” he gasped. “No way! People are especially rude this summer, and it’s only June.”

“Tell me about it.” I stopped to sigh. “Man, I really wish I could’ve smacked her. If I didn’t need this job to save up for college, I would’ve slapped her right in her stupid, orangey face.”

Reid’s gut-splitting laughter echoed through the receiver. “Hey,” he said once he got himself together. “At least you’re graduating tomorrow, right?”

“Right,” I chuckled. I’d stop working at the end of August this year instead of halfway into the winter.

“Speaking of, I’m still sorry I can’t make it,” he apologized.

“Dude, it’s finals week. I can’t hold that against you.”

“Don’t remind me,” he grumbled. “Fucking trimesters.” Reid went to a fancy engineering school in the city that used trimesters instead of semesters. It was totally progressive or something. “At least Paige is gonna be there, right?”

“Nah, Paige has work.”

“I thought she didn’t start until 5.”

“Yeah, but she needs to be there at, like, quarter of,” I explained.

“She can be late one time. This is your big day, Leah.”

“Really, it’s fine. You know how her boss is,” I said.

Paige, my other best friend of four years, worked a local craft store, which we also commonly referred to as hell. Because it was. It just disguised itself as a craft store. Really, Satan lived in the stockroom. That’s also where they kept all the raging fires.

“Whatever,” Reid said. “If you’re okay with that.”

“Come on, she needs money for school, too.”

“She has all year to work. She’s going to fucking community college,” he scoffed.

“Reid, be nice,” I laughed.

“Well, I wouldn’t care so much if we didn’t live here! Community college is, like, high school part two in this town!” he ranted. “You’re basically paying thousands of dollars to get stuck here your whole life.”

“But they have a great pastry arts program, and you know that’s what she wanted to do.”

“Yeah, I know,” Reid muttered.

“Plus, she said she’s gonna transfer out after two years,” I told him. “She even went to look at schools around the same time I was.”

“Whatever you say, Leah,” he relented. “Anyway, I have to start cramming again. I have a final at eight.”

“Blech.” My whole face scrunched up. “As much as that sounds like a great time, I don’t envy you.” Reid laughed. “Catch you, later. Don’t burn yourself out.”

“I won’t,” he said.

“Kay. Bye, boo,” I told him.

“Bye.”

I hung the phone up, stuffed it back into my purse, and continued the three block walk to where I parked my car, no longer bothered by how annoying it was that I had to park this far away just to avoid the parking meters. None of that mattered because tomorrow, I was graduating, and soon, I’d never have to come back to this godawful fishbowl town ever again.