Saturday, February 2, 2008
I guess this means I'm racist. But I'm also half black. So that makes me.... a Blacist. I really don't like black people, at my job. Not the employees, (Of which there are few) but the customers. I do my best to find something to do in the freezer, show someone where the Velveeta cheese is, or catch a sudden case of the green apple splatters when I see a black person walk up and start looking for help. I feel so horrible and dirty admitting this!!! It's because I already know what's coming. You can give them the same hints, prices, and seafood as any other race, and they immediatley think they are being discriminated against. A customer about a week ago. One of my nightmares. Black woman, early forties. "I need some orange roughy. Do you have any?" I pause. "I'm not sure, maam. I have to take a look in my freezer. Give me just a moment.." Her smile turned into a hard line. "Will that be a problem?" I was so surprised by her sudden change in character that I almost giggled as I said, "No maam, that's my job..." Then on the way back to the freezer to check, I started to get irritated. Why the fuck would that be a problem, anyway?... No orange roughy in the freezer. I wanted to shoot myself, but since I had no gun, I returned to my department to find her, now on her cell phone, with three new non-smiling customers tapping their toes behind her. As soon as I could grab her attention for a second and tell her, she became even more irate. "Maam, we don't have any. I went to-" She cut me off. "Well never mind then. Yall got and Dungeon (Dungeness, idiot!) crabs?" I rolled my eyes in my mind's eye and said, "Yes we do. We have the whole crabs at the moment, for $5.99lb. They weigh about-" Cut off agian. "Just give me two." Yes maam. Back in the cold-ass freezer. Dungeness crabs at the very bottom of a big fuckin stack of various heavy boxes. My fingertips were numb, and by the time I got out of the freezer, Snarlie was up at the counter, helping the poor SOB's who had the misfortune of lining up behind her. As soon as I printed the tag, she snapped, "No, I wanted those steamed, with Old Bitch seasoning." So great, fifteen more minutes of this salty-ass heifer loafing around my counter and scaring off potential customers with her loud-ass cell phone conversation. Cut to fifteen minutes later. Takes the bag of crabs, no thank you, and walks off. I go to lunch. When I get back, the steam bag is sitting back on one of the counters. I wanted to kick her motherfucking ass. It seems like every black person I help out has the tendancy to monopolize every bit of time that they can, try to spend the least amount possible, by haggling even, and then usually still don't buy a god damn thing. And if I had a penny for every time someone asked if they could use an EBT card to buy seafood.... UGH. Just ugh.