Greetings! I'm not currently in retail (I'm presently in IT), but I think my cred is still good:
3 years as a cashier selling alcohol to people with enough income to feed a small third-world country
13 years working emergency dispatch
For an intro, I'd like to talk about my Dad. Sadly, he died a few years back, but he was not known for taking nonsense from anyone. Ever. This is a little SC-action, but not, I think, on Dad's part.
Dad was a former Marine. Dad had the patience of a saint with us kids and avoided swearing around us as much as possible (though, if he hit himself with a hammer, or shot himself across a room touching that part of a TV known as "see this? You never want to touch this." with a screwdriver, an almost-reverent "GODDAMN IT!" might cross his lips.). I didn't see this incident, I heard about it from my Mom. Mom and Dad were making their yearly trek to Sturgis, driving the Harley with sidecar. They had stopped in a small town in Montana, seeking an ice cream and a break from the heat. After purchasing their frosty delights, they headed for the door, only to find it blocked by a group of teenage ne'er-do-wells. The kids stood there smirking--what was an old couple going to do, after all? Dad said, "Excuse me." Smirk...smirk. "Excuse me, we want to leave." Much smirkage. "ARE YOUR FUCKING FEET NAILED TO THE FUCKING FLOOR? I SAID, MOVE!!!", uttered in his best Marine-Corps-quarter-deck voice. Mom said that she never saw where they went; it was as if they just ascended into the aether.
I will post past tales of 911-phone-call silliness and liquor store shenanigans, but first, may I salute you all? You do a hard job--nothing is harder than dealing with the public--and you do it well.
3 years as a cashier selling alcohol to people with enough income to feed a small third-world country
13 years working emergency dispatch
For an intro, I'd like to talk about my Dad. Sadly, he died a few years back, but he was not known for taking nonsense from anyone. Ever. This is a little SC-action, but not, I think, on Dad's part.
Dad was a former Marine. Dad had the patience of a saint with us kids and avoided swearing around us as much as possible (though, if he hit himself with a hammer, or shot himself across a room touching that part of a TV known as "see this? You never want to touch this." with a screwdriver, an almost-reverent "GODDAMN IT!" might cross his lips.). I didn't see this incident, I heard about it from my Mom. Mom and Dad were making their yearly trek to Sturgis, driving the Harley with sidecar. They had stopped in a small town in Montana, seeking an ice cream and a break from the heat. After purchasing their frosty delights, they headed for the door, only to find it blocked by a group of teenage ne'er-do-wells. The kids stood there smirking--what was an old couple going to do, after all? Dad said, "Excuse me." Smirk...smirk. "Excuse me, we want to leave." Much smirkage. "ARE YOUR FUCKING FEET NAILED TO THE FUCKING FLOOR? I SAID, MOVE!!!", uttered in his best Marine-Corps-quarter-deck voice. Mom said that she never saw where they went; it was as if they just ascended into the aether.
I will post past tales of 911-phone-call silliness and liquor store shenanigans, but first, may I salute you all? You do a hard job--nothing is harder than dealing with the public--and you do it well.
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