Have you ever noticed that the more
our nation moves toward a service-based economy, the less service we seem to be
able to get? Who amongst us has not had
our run-ins with the occasional surly, snippy grocery cashier, department store
salesperson, or fast food worker? Is it
just me, or is it getting worse?
Maybe it is me. Perhaps I’m getting
cranky with age. It happens. In any case, let me say right off the bat
that what recently transpired between me and a presumably minimum-wage cashier
at a neighborhood burger joint was in no way typical of the kind of service I
usually get there. For that reason, I’m
not naming the chain. Its cashiers are
pleasant on at least some occasions.
More typically they’re neutral, but in a perfectly professional kind of
way. I could live, I could die—it wouldn’t
adversely affect their day either way, but at least they’re not actively
sticking pins into a bald-headed doll.
That said, I will point out that this
is one of those chains where the forces of random chance and chaos are allowed
to determine who’s next in line to be served.
You’re never sure whether one cash register is open, or two. There is no queuing system other than, “May I
help who’s next?” If it’s clear there’s
more than one line, you will pick the
slowest one; it’s a fundamental physical law of the Universe, like the forces
responsible for gravity, electromagnetism, and lost socks. Often times patrons stand off to one side while
they stare up at the menu pulling their chins in open-mouthed confused
indecision (“I don’t know. Burger? Chicken?
Burger? Chicken? Fries?
No? Gee.”) You can’t always know at a glance whether these
deep thinkers believe they’re in line or not—and if so, which line. Customers are
expected to sort this stuff out on their own.
“Are you in line?” is an oft-heard question. If you fail to ask and then guess wrong, you
invite a withering glance at very least, and are likely to get told off and put
in your place (literally) in curt, pointed tones.
When I walked in, as I have done
hundreds of times with this chain, and dozens of times with this particular
store, I saw only one customer at the counter ahead of me, a woman with a
stroller. She had the cashier digging into
a bin behind the counter, sorting through various kids’ meal toys. What was going on, I have no idea. Whatever.
I waited. I continued to wait as the cashier chatted with
her about the customer’s tattoos, which were both plentiful and colorful. “Oh, that one’s nice,” the cashier said, pointing
to some kind of elaborately scroll-worked and filigreed figure on the woman’s
bare upper arm. “What does it mean?” It
means she was drunk or stoned one night ten years ago on spring break, that’s
what it means, I wanted to shout.
But I didn’t. I self-stifled.
While this was going on, a man about
my age approached from behind and took up station just to my right. He was looking up at the menu while standing
even with me, very close, in what seemed like a “You think you’re next in line but
really I am” kind of way. The cashier
and tattoo victim continued to chat. I
said nothing, but the look on my face probably betrayed my annoyance, because
when the cashier caught my glance, she shot me a “What is your problem?” kind
of look. Eventually the illustrated lady
paid for her order, but continued to stand there while she secured her toys, put
away her change, tucked her purse into a stroller pocket, and so on. While this was going on, the man on my right
walked around behind me and then bellied up to the counter on my left.
Since I was still stuck behind Toys-Am-I mom, this placed him in
position ahead of me. Finally, stroller
lady moved out of the way, and I stepped forward. At this point, I was standing even with the
guy, and was directly in front of the register, facing the cashier, while he
was out of position off to the left.
The cashier turned to him and said,
“May I help you?”
Without thinking, I blurted out, “I
believe I’m next.”
The cashier flashed me an annoyed “sure
you are” look. “I don’t think so,” she
said flatly.
Again, without thinking, I said, “Actually,
I’m quite sure I’m next.” I glanced over at the interloper to see if
he’d realized his mistake. I saw that
the man had thrown his hands up as if I’d drawn a pistol on him, and was
backing away.
There is something about a line
jumper that just makes you want to wade into it. I once watched a woman walk brazenly past
about two hundred people queued up for a ride at Disney World, and she got away
with it cold. I’ve never forgotten
that. But suddenly I realized how ludicrous
the current situation was. It was all so
small. “Look, I don’t care,” I said to both of them,
now feeling embarrassed. I stepped back,
and then motioned him into my place. “Please. Go ahead.”
“No, you go ahead,” he said, backing
away further, while still reaching for the sky.
Now neither one of us was at the counter, and no one was ordering. Meanwhile,
as we were going through our get-out-of-my-way-no-you-get-out-of-mine-okay-you-go-no-I-insist-you-go
routine, a line had formed behind us.
Fine. “Okay,” I said. I stepped forward again and placed my order. The cashier rang it up. She then read me back a total that was substantially
higher than it should have been. “No, I
don’t think so,” I said. “That can’t be
right.”
At this point, there was no
mistaking it. The openly hostile expression on her face definitely qualified as
what my lovely wife likes to call, “The Stinkeye.” “It’s what you ordered,” she said, still
glaring at me, and now she was really putting her back into it, squinting her
eyes, pursing her lips, and flaring her nose.
Her look of disdain, disapproval, and utter contempt was so intense, in
fact, that if I’d held up a mirror, it would have set her hair ablaze and
started a fire in the kitchen behind her.
“Would you mind reading it back to
me?” I asked.
She did so.
“No, that’s not what I said.” I then repeated my three-item order.
“Sir,” she said frostily, “you don’t have to
be rude to me. That is not what I
heard.” By her expression, it was very
clear that what she really meant was, “That’s
not what you said, a**hole.”
I was stunned. Now, it is true that I had to undergo full anesthesia
for a surgical procedure three months ago.
And I’ll further concede that some of my friends have questioned whether
I’ve yet to come all the way out of it.
But really, they’re just kidding, I’m pretty sure, and besides, I feel
fine. I tend to order the same items at
this chain every time, and have years of practice under my belt in getting the
routine down pat. Further, having to
repeat an order was nothing new. It’s practically
de rigueur for ordering in a fast
food restaurant, and I’d done it a thousand times before with a thousand other
cashiers, using the exact same words and tone of voice. “Rude
to you?” I asked, astonished. I
thought, You’re kidding, right? Are we
really gonna do this?
Apparently we were. She continued to irradiate me with a fusion-powered,
soul-shriveling, “You, sir, are an ass” particle-beam glare.
I opened my mouth to defend myself. Then I stopped, closed it, and thought about
asking for the manager. As both scenarios
played out in my head, it occurred to me again how stupid this had to look. And now my appetite was gone. “You know what, fine.” I said.
“Forget it.” I put away my
wallet, turned, and walked away.
“Have a nice day, sir!” she sang out loudly with enough acid in her voice to
dissolve a life-sized bronze statue of St. Francis. Heads turned—not to look at her, but at me.
By their expressions, I could tell that my fellow fast-food addicts were
wondering what kind of abuse I’d dished out to so annoy the poor harassed
cashier.
I almost turned back at that
point. But I didn’t. There are good, righteous, and worthwhile battles
to fight over the issue of poor customer service. I wasn’t convinced this one was one of them.
Mind you, historically I have not
been one to shy away from a customer service fight. In fact, as a TV news director, I adopted
pro-consumer coverage philosophies and have personally led teams of journalists
into battle on those kinds of things. But
in most of the cases that spring to mind, the stakes were a bit higher than a
$4 hamburger order.
One day several years ago, I bought
a set of china from a major retailer with which I’d done business many times previously
and had come to trust. A few days later,
when I washed the dishes for the first time—by hand, as instructed—the gold trim
began to rub off. I retrieved the
receipt, and only at this point did I notice words that read, “No returns
without original packaging.” I’d thrown
the dish box away days ago after verifying that the set had arrived
intact. Undeterred, the next day I stacked
the dishes into a leftover U-haul box and took them back to the store. The returns clerk politely pointed out the
words on the receipt and said she couldn’t help me. I asked to see the manager. He was not so polite. The man didn’t quite ask me out loud whether
I could read, but did point out glacially that ignorance of store law was no
defense, and stated flatly that the rules would not be waived for the likes of
me. “Fine,” I said, and pushed the plates
across the counter to him. “Keep ‘em.” As I walked out, I was proud that I had
restrained myself from making a helpful suggestion about where he could keep them. My
credit card company refunded my money without question. And two months later that store went
bankrupt. Imagine that.
I once took my car to an automotive
repair chain that I’d patronized for years, trying to get an idle problem
fixed. Three trips and $800 later, it
was still idling rough. Exasperated, I popped
the hood, looking to see if the throttle linkage had an idle backstop
screw. I found it, adjusted it, and thereby
solved the problem myself. Outraged, I
dashed off a nastygram to the company’s regional headquarters. One week later a refund check for the full
amount of the repairs arrived in the mail, along with a professionally worded
apology. It won that company a life-long
customer, and I’ve had nothing but good experiences with its stores and mechanics
since. I would venture to guess that other
customers have received similar treatment and are showing similar loyalty
because of it. That company did not go bankrupt; it’s thriving
today. Imagine that.
Cases and companies involving
big-ticket items are one thing. Should
fast food joints, churning out cheap food at the hands of low-paid wage slaves,
be held to any different standards of service?
Really, I’m not the person to
ask. I’m probably a dinosaur when it
comes to that kind of thing. It’s been
many years since I worked for minimum wage, but I have done it. I didn’t flip burgers, but I did fill tacos,
scrubbed bugs off of vehicles, manned a convenience store counter, and chased
golf balls at a driving range while patrons did their level best to kill me
(“Look at that one! There it goes! It’s gonna get him! It’s gonna get him! Dang,
it missed.”) Eventually a college degree
led to higher-paying jobs. But my
attitude in each and every one of those gigs, regardless of pay, was the
same: in return for my employer’s
paycheck, I would turn in my best efforts.
Period. I’ve had bosses I
liked. I’ve had bosses I wouldn’t cross
the street to help on my personal time if their pants were ablaze and I was
holding the only fire extinguisher on Planet Earth. But in every case, I did my level best for
the company.
I also have quite a bit of
experience handling seriously disgruntled people. Try talking to a NASCAR fan whose televised race
has just been interrupted by an urgent news report, and see what happens. Even when faced with a barrage of personal
abuse including f-bombs and worse, the nastiest words I ever recall uttering to
a customer were, “Sir, I’m not required to listen to profanity or abuse, and
I’m disconnecting the call.”
They say that today’s generation has
a different work ethic. I was a hiring
manager in my last several jobs, and I got lucky, I guess, because I saw no
pattern of problems with the young people I brought on board, many of whom were
just starting their careers and therefore were making entry-level wages, or
close to it. Some of my colleagues in
the industry report having had different experiences, claiming the
“millennials” expect a prize for showing up, demand to be respected equally
with the senior staff upon walking in off the street, believe career
advancement should be simply a function of time served, and think those annoying
evening, weekend, overtime, and holiday shifts are someone else’s problem.
Again, I don’t know. What are reasonable service and performance expectations
for young or low-paid employees in today’s business world? When it comes to poorly paid workers of any
kind, should we customers feel grateful they’re tolerating our physical
presence and allowing us to fork over our cash?
Should we feel guilty? Are we
exploiting them? Is surliness or even
snarliness simply to be expected as a reasonable response to an unreasonable economic
disparity?
Maybe you buy that. I don’t.
I agree the minimum wage needs to come up. But that is not what this incident was
about. It was about
professionalism. That’s a character
trait, like honesty, not a job skill.
Either you have it or you don’t.
Good employers screen for it.
Someone else receiving the treatment
I did might have pitched a fit, hoping to get the employee canned. But I decided not to be that guy. I wasn’t out any money. And even if I had felt the emotional need to
retaliate for my minor public embarrassment, I doubt that losing a job at the
local BrickBurger would have ruined this employee’s hour, much less her
afternoon. In any case, ultimately, it’s
not my responsibility to help the owners of that business train their employees
or to identify any potential threats that the bad ones may present to their
bottom line. It’s theirs. Besides, I have a suspicion that even without
my intervention, sooner or later this employee’s folder will wind up in a file
marked, “self-solving problems.” So I
walked away.
And I won’t be back. I can’t shake my fast food habit, and am not
inclined to try. But the landscape is
filled with burger joints vying for my business. That’s one of the beauties of our free market
economy. It has it flaws, God knows. But it does provide options. Consumers can make choices. As I just did.
Anyway, it could have been worse. Someone could have dribbled a swastika on my hamburger bun, as one fast-food butthead recently did to a customer in North Carolina. If something like that had happened, I'd have no choice. I'd have to go to the media, as she did, resulting in a paroxysm of outraged coast-to-coast coverage.
Wait, I am in the media, if you let me count this blog and a local talk radio station.
Life is good.
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©2014 by Forrest Carr. All rights reserved.
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