Here comes another one: another plodding, doltish asshole customer with an over-inflated sense of entitlement on his way to make his dissatisfaction your misery. Why you took this job at the customer service desk of the mall you’ll never know. Okay, that’s not true, you know exactly why you took it – because you needed the money – but why you stay you’re not sure. Okay, you’re sure why you stay – because you still need the money – but fuck this job, seriously.
“Not enough benches,” says the customer, ramming the dick of his bullshit into the ass of your indifference without the slightest lube of a greeting.
“Hello!” you say enthusiastically, greeting the slovenly curmudgeon with a smile and a wave. If it’s his intention to be a dick, it’s yours to make him work for it.
“I saiii-id: not enough benches,” he declares, adding a y sound to “said” you didn’t know existed.
“Yes sir, how can I help you?”
“This the complaint desk, ain’t it? I got a complaint.”
“This, sir,” you explain, gesturing to the giant sign above your kiosk that declares CUSTOMER SERVICE in plain English, “is the Customer Service desk. If I can best serve you by taking your complaint, I’ll be happy to do so.”
“Yeah, well…” the man pauses – your excellent customer service jargon seems to have knocked his brain off-kilter. “There ain’t enough benches. Somebody ought to fix that.”
“I’ll forward your concerns to the proper administrative channels, sir. Thank you for sharing your feedback with us. Your opinions matter,” you say, lying.
“Yeah,” he says as he shuffles away, taking your good day with him in his warm front pocket, no doubt stuffed between two Cinnabon receipts from five minutes apart and an old gummy bear.
Fuck this job.