Part Deux-Deux: Ringing Me Up & Wringing Out My Self-Esteem

Oh, I have one more incident or non-incident (depending on your politics) to report regarding customer service, or lack thereof.

I went to a mainstream hipster store yesterday (name redacted because they don’t need/want people to think just any-ol’-body can prance into their cooler-than-thou stores).

I wasn’t intending to buy anything but then Boyfie pointed at this adorable little T-shirt tunic-dress with a ribbon tie-belt, and I couldn’t very well say “No, I am not going to try that piece of heaven on.” And then, after having done that, I couldn’t further say “Nah, maybe some other time” after he gave me the thumbs-up in spite of the aggressively apathetic dressing room attendant who was also staring at me. I mean, damn Mami, a girl’s gotta bow to the fashion pantheon sometimes.

So I went to ring myself up. I wish you could check yourself out of retail stores just like you can do now at grocery stores but then everyone would be entering couture as 50% off sunglasses or whatnot, and it would all go to raggedy pieces from there. Not to mention those electronic sensors you gotta remove; those things could have their own show, they’re so fierce and yet entirely lacking any substantial personality.

The cashier was a card in the very truest sense of the word. First of all, he was the first South Asian male hipster I’ve seen ever, but not even in the second-generation Americanized sense. He still had his Asian accent well intact,and a full mustachio to boot. He also appeared to be in his mid-30s, or was one of those exceedingly overdeveloped teenagers considering no other staff in the store appeared over the ripe age of 25.

Hipsters don’t care who you are, only who they are! (She has arm warmers; what do you bring to the table? That’s rhetorical.)
photo courtesy of Flickr and permanently scatterbrained

We both sized each other up pretty quickly, me deciding he was a figment of my imagination, and him deciding I was a barely-there nuisance that needed to be dealt with smartly so he could continue on with his independently labeled night.

“Hello!” He proclaimed boldly, flashing his white teeth like reverse customer currency.

“Oh hi.” I said trying to downplay the interaction.

“I’ll take you over here actually,” he pronounced, whisking himself and my selection over to the opposite end of Register Island.

“Alright,” I said, already significantly disoriented.

He looked more like Tickle Me Emo than Tickle Me Hipster, but he was bursting with joie de freakin’ vivre!
photo courtesy of Flickr and moacirpdsp

“Did you find everything you needed OK?!” His tendency was to accent the last syllable in every sentence so instead of just inflecting upward with the question mark, he added some extra flair, causing his words to shoot way over my head into outer space.

“Uh, yes.”

“AWESOME!!!” He shouted this so loudly that the store, which was completely devoid of people except for other employees impassively folding inventory, shuddered a bit. The sales rack completely disintegrated in the face of such unbridled enthusiasm and passion for retail.

I wasn’t sure where to look as he handled my purchase so I kept my eyes on the cash register and didn’t let them budge by a millimeter.

“Your total is [blahdee-blah]!” (Again, this announcement was couched in the weight and volume of a trumpet blast, but one that aims to appear as if it’s not trying that hard.)

I was already brandishing my credit card protectively in front of my face, ready to obediently scan it on the little machine provided.

“I’ll swipe that over here,” he said grabbing my card and sweeping it through with a grand flourish.

I was completely bedazzled with fear at this point.

“PLEASE SIGN ON THE LINE!!” He screamed while maintaining a secret smirk on his lips.

Why scorn, what is, how hey?! As I got ready to sign, the electronic pen disobeyed my hands and instead of a signature, an ugly black whirlpool of ink pixels spat out on the little window.

“Ughhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” The cashier groaned.

I was certain he was groaning at my penmanship, but I looked up and realized Nope, he was just groaning in general. Into the air. At the state of the world (in which I, a mere black and white stick figure to his 3-D technicolor personality, could exist).

I pressed Accept on the electronic signature tablet. And he did some more twirling and whirling in getting my receipt in the bag, and then doing a choreographed curtsy-bow, he bent entirely perpendicular to me and condescendingly handed me my bag over the counter as if I was fake-royalty.

“Here you are. Have a good one!” He chirruped, but again with absolutely zero sincerity and making .05% eye contact. Then I was dead to him and he was back to hamming it up for his colleagues/the opposite of society.

I ran out of that store clutching my impulse buy and muttering some incantations to ward off bold personalities. Boyfie had already wisely escaped about midway through my transaction.

Habitat for inhumanity.
photo courtesy of Flickr and Ingorrr

That man-boy clearly enjoyed patronizing patrons of the store.

Anyhoops, in conclusion, customer service. What is the haps. Shit’s crazy!

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