So I spent the holiday weekend working at Save Alot. This is not a complaint. I’ve been asked every day to stay later, and called every day to come to work earlier. This is also not a complaint.
It was a long hard weekend. Actually, it was a long hard four days. The first week of the month is usually pretty tough, but when there are graduation parties and a heat up your barbeque type of holiday, our little Welfare Discount Grocery Store, with 100% Satisfaction Guaranteed on every single product, no frills, and savings up to 40% compared to other more popular grocery chains, gets pretty busy.
And the newer, greener, lightweight workers call in sick.
So they call in me. The Save Alot Champion, wearing the belt ever since the great and Almighty JW left the team. Able to run any section of the store except the meat prep room, having every product UPC code memorized, knowing the cash register OS inside and out, and even knowing how many floor tiles are in each aisle, I respond to my important duties, and look at my inferiors as coworkers. I maintain and rotate Produce, unload two trucks, pull cardboard, face every product in each aisle with only a 2.9% margin of error, keep milk and eggs full, stack the dairy and frozen backstock, arrange the coolers, and run register, all while on my required ten minute break. I proudly offer my wisdom with such phrases as “Easy Tiger,” or “Spot job the aisles, good job upfront,” and the forever classic, “Just like New York.” I am prepared to throw a case of 36 cartons of eggs at the backroom wall, or kick any customers ass and deposit him in the meat room to prepare his circulation and distribution for the other customers. I can sign people’s checks for them, refuse to give them their change, and not let them leave with their purchased goods. I can throw carts at their cars, and lock them in or out of the store. I can break all day, and make others do my work. I can let spoiled produce overcome Aisle 1, or let the freezers defrost and flood Aisle 8. I am the Save Alot God.
But, with my power, and with my greatness, and the oldschool red patched shirt with more rips than all three Scary Movie’s combined, I cannot control everything. I cannot control the stupidity of the customer. My powers do not have any influence on their intelligence. Many have asked me, while I am working, dressed in my save alot Uniform, or while running register, “Do you work here?” I do not understand the deep philosophical essence of their question. Maybe we all work here? Maybe nobody works here? Who’s nobody? Where is here? I shake my head, and tell them no.
Since July 4th has been defecating itself in peoples minds…and since it is the first July 4th since 9/11/2003, which was the two year anniversary of September 11th, which makes it the most important July 4th in the history of mankind, even more important than the one concerning the Declaration of Independence… as if we celebrate it now to wave our rumps in the air at the British… alot of people want to make this July 4th special.
So they go to Save Alot.
And what do they want to buy? Of all things, they want fireworks.
Fireworks are illegal to sell and purchase in the State of NY, but nobody told the dirty men who hit on the cashiers that. “You do have fireworks?” I respond calmly, “Yes, Aisle 4, next to the instant pudding, poop eating pedophile.”
Something else that bothers me; It’s the fact that we were taught not to be racist, which sort of makes us racist anyways, because that only makes us try and treat other races MORE fairly than our own usual white trash redneck sort of race. The young sixteen year old girls automatically think.
Not White Guy Detected
Language: Unknown. Probably the language of love.
Smell: Racehorse piss
Conclusion: This person is a minority. To treat them differently would be racist. I must treat them by allowing them to take advantage of me, even if it discredits my ability to reason, and humiliatingly turns me into a slut. Everyone is doing it.
Anyways, what I’m really trying to say here, is while working at Save Alot, I get a chance to surround myself with people of different cultures and nationalities. They have tough lives, with their working, not having to shower, having to purchase food, and sleeping with girls half their age. The least they could do is learn the English. We need big broad thugs to stand ever few feet at every boarder, with gold plated signs that politely say, “Welcome to America. Check your language at the door.” No, we do not sell cebollas, but you might want to try our onions. They are in the Pasillo de producto.
People also try to haggle with us, to save a few cents on our already cheap as dirt bananas. This guy comes in every few days and buys four bananas and a roll of toilet paper. Nothing more, nothing less. He asks us the price of many other items though, and then tells us God will smite us for our outragious prices, then mumbling something to himself. I will not lower the price for you. Tell your higher power to give you more money, or a real job.
There is much to be hated when it comes to this little town, and the people are no exception. Old, uneducated, dirty, as if we lived in a town of dirt and cow manuer, and the only water was saved for the employees of Save Alot. While putting on my “I don’t hate you, I need your money” face, ringing up their groceries, I feel it is needed to fake a smile and ask the customers how they are. A cheerful “How are you today?” might start making this town a little brighter, right? Nope. Some customers will smile and respond, even providing some standard conversation. This is especially nice when the customer is what we consider a Code Red… And they are paying in foodstamps or a check, so we get their number. Most customers are, unfortunatly, not Code Reds, and far from it. Dirty hands, bearded women, eyes and cheeks hanging out all over their face, and the smell of death oozing off their oily bodies, our customers are painful to the eyes. Many of them are not too friendly either, except the really ungodly odered ones, who want to get right there in your face and speak with their fumes of exhausted air burning in your lungs. I got off subject, but basically, the kick end of the story, is that some customers don’t even appreciate our pretending to appreciate them. When I ask, “How are you today sir?” as I scan their groceries, occassionally, I get a response like “Foodstamp” or “Less talk, work.”
Ungreatful dirty freaks. I hope you all get food poisoning from our ravioli.