So, the other day I run up to the local Microcenter. It's closer to where I work than our home, so I figured I'd head out after work, stop there, get home, and since it's on the way, it wouldn't be so bad.
Took me an hour to get there, where it should have taken 20 minutes, and I'd already had someone not paying attention to the road almost plow into the back of me.
All this meant that I was resolute to the idea that I would dash in, get my wife's new computer, which we had already ordered online, and dash out again. No interaction beyond the necessary, which, well, became kind of a shame.
As I get up to the register, the girl there takes my printout for the computer, says she'll go get it. I'm doing my best impression of a pleasant person, and smile and thank her.
That's when I hear, a little louder than necessary, "No, you don't!" from the register behind me.
Of course, I turn around and look. There's a fairly innocuous looking man, maybe mid sixties, glaring daggers at the girl at his register. I see the girl is holding the mans credit/debit card, whatever.
She turns it around to show him, and even with my poor eyesight I can see the back isn't signed at all.
Ah, I think, one of those.
She starts to say something, but he cuts her off.
"You don't need to see my ID."
Dude, you may have a white beard, but you are not Obi-Wan. You're not even Jar Jar.
She tries to say something again, and he cuts her off again.
"If I was buying this," indicating the cheap looking speakers he was buying, "from Newegg they wouldn't need to see my idea."
So go to Newegg, no?
The girl, obviously knowing that she isn't going to be able to say anything, motions over a wall of meat wearing a tie. He looked better suited to security than to management, but that's what he was.
He tries explaining now that, as the back of the card isn't signed, they are required to check the ID of the person s they can ensure that it isn't stolen.
"No you don't! You don't! It's a contract between Visa and me, you do not need to see my ID! If I shop online, they don't check. You don't need to either. Does Greg still work here? He can tell you who I am!"
The manager and the girl at the register looked at each other, both thoroughly tired of it all. As bad as I feel about it, I'm thoroughly entertained. I've never seen one of his kind in the wild, after all, full of righteous indignation that he was being asked to present a document identifying himself.
"You don't need to see my ID," the man says again, absolutely sure of himself.
At this point, the girl who had gone to get my computer. She'd been able to see all of this from the all of 20 feet away she had been, and asks me to see my payment method and ID.
"Sure," I say, loud enough to carry, "here's my card and my drivers license." Girl checks them, hands them back, and prints out the receipt.
I look over again and the old man has his shoulders slumped over. I think he may have finally realized he was causing a scene for no good reason, but now there really wasn't a way out of it for him. The manager had his card in hand, gone back to his little podium, and was on the phone. Whatever was going on, it was going to probably eat up another 30 minutes of his life, and all for a pair of probably not more than $20 speakers.
I left, feeling pretty good that so much of this mans time was going to be wasted for no real good reason, and judging from the expression on the managers face, he certainly wasn't going to get his way.
Of course, then I took a wrong turn, got lost, and spent another hour on the road.
Took me an hour to get there, where it should have taken 20 minutes, and I'd already had someone not paying attention to the road almost plow into the back of me.
All this meant that I was resolute to the idea that I would dash in, get my wife's new computer, which we had already ordered online, and dash out again. No interaction beyond the necessary, which, well, became kind of a shame.
As I get up to the register, the girl there takes my printout for the computer, says she'll go get it. I'm doing my best impression of a pleasant person, and smile and thank her.
That's when I hear, a little louder than necessary, "No, you don't!" from the register behind me.
Of course, I turn around and look. There's a fairly innocuous looking man, maybe mid sixties, glaring daggers at the girl at his register. I see the girl is holding the mans credit/debit card, whatever.
She turns it around to show him, and even with my poor eyesight I can see the back isn't signed at all.
Ah, I think, one of those.
She starts to say something, but he cuts her off.
"You don't need to see my ID."
Dude, you may have a white beard, but you are not Obi-Wan. You're not even Jar Jar.
She tries to say something again, and he cuts her off again.
"If I was buying this," indicating the cheap looking speakers he was buying, "from Newegg they wouldn't need to see my idea."
So go to Newegg, no?
The girl, obviously knowing that she isn't going to be able to say anything, motions over a wall of meat wearing a tie. He looked better suited to security than to management, but that's what he was.
He tries explaining now that, as the back of the card isn't signed, they are required to check the ID of the person s they can ensure that it isn't stolen.
"No you don't! You don't! It's a contract between Visa and me, you do not need to see my ID! If I shop online, they don't check. You don't need to either. Does Greg still work here? He can tell you who I am!"
The manager and the girl at the register looked at each other, both thoroughly tired of it all. As bad as I feel about it, I'm thoroughly entertained. I've never seen one of his kind in the wild, after all, full of righteous indignation that he was being asked to present a document identifying himself.
"You don't need to see my ID," the man says again, absolutely sure of himself.
At this point, the girl who had gone to get my computer. She'd been able to see all of this from the all of 20 feet away she had been, and asks me to see my payment method and ID.
"Sure," I say, loud enough to carry, "here's my card and my drivers license." Girl checks them, hands them back, and prints out the receipt.
I look over again and the old man has his shoulders slumped over. I think he may have finally realized he was causing a scene for no good reason, but now there really wasn't a way out of it for him. The manager had his card in hand, gone back to his little podium, and was on the phone. Whatever was going on, it was going to probably eat up another 30 minutes of his life, and all for a pair of probably not more than $20 speakers.
I left, feeling pretty good that so much of this mans time was going to be wasted for no real good reason, and judging from the expression on the managers face, he certainly wasn't going to get his way.
Of course, then I took a wrong turn, got lost, and spent another hour on the road.
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