"Thank you for calling Pizza Place, can I help you?"
"Do you do online orders?"
"No, I'm sorry, we don't."
"Oh. Okay. Well, never mind, then."
"Uh -- you can place an order over the phone."
"No, that's all right. Thanks anyway." *click*
Monday, December 31, 2007
Friday, December 28, 2007
Idiot wind
Idiot wind, blowin' every time you move your teethThe least intelligent person to ever walk the face of the earth is currently employed at Pizza Place. I hope this knowledge comforts you -- no matter how dumb you think the people around you are, there's always someone dumber you don't have to talk to. I do, though. Goddammit.
You're an idiot, babe
It's a wonder that you still know how to breathe
--Bob Dylan
How dumb? "Sausage" and "Italian sausage." Are they the same thing? No. If I ask you that tomorrow, will you be able to remember the answer? Probably. If I ask you that in five minutes, will you be able to remember? Of course. Can she? No.
It was explained to her when she started working. Various people reminded her that first week. A few weeks later, she and Mini Boss engaged in a lively row based on her inability to retain this fact. And just today, she walked up to me and said, "Sausage and Italian sausage are the same thing, right?"
I could write dozens of posts about her ineptitude (and probably will), but I'll start with this tip of the iceberg -- a recent story that aptly demonstrates the serious gap between reality and her perception of it.
Last week, the day before Christmas Eve (Christmas Eve Eve?), the Dumb One walked up to Mini Boss, out of the blue, and said, "Monday Tuesday?"
Mini Boss looked at her askance. "What?"
She, impatiently: "Monday. Tuesday."
"Okay," he said. "Let's think about this. You just walked up to me, out of nowhere, and said, 'Monday Tuesday'. What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"
"Are we off on Monday and Tuesday?"
"What -- what -- how the hell was I supposed to get that out of 'Monday Tuesday'?"
"That's not what I said."
"Yes, it is."
"No, I didn't. I said 'Are we off and Monday and Tuesday?'"
"No, you didn't!"
"Yes, I did."
"No, you didn't! You just 'Monday Tuesday'! That's it!"
Scoff. "Whatever." And she walked away.
Mini Boss looked at me with confusion. And not a little terror.
Trust me: this isn't the last time you'll hear from her.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Again, sir: there are two options, and that isn't one of them
We don't take checks anymore -- we just received way too many bad ones. So now we only accept cash and credit cards. Fortunately, that cuts down on the possibility of fraud. Unfortunately, it means I have to have this conversation every day:
"Will you be paying with cash or credit?"
"A check."
Grr!
Even better (and by "better" I mean "more annoying") is when I tell them we don't take checks, and they ask to speak to the manager. Why? How exactly do you think that conversation is going to go?
"We don't accept checks."
"But I want to use a check."
"Oh, well, then okay. We'll take a check."
Is that what you think the manager is going to say? Man, whose idea do you think it was to stop taking checks in the first place? The manager.
I ran into similar problems back at that rental car job. To get a car from us, you needed to have -- among other things -- a valid driver's license. When someone would hand me an expired license, I'd hand it back and explain the rules. (The rules, of course, were displayed on a large sign not two feet from the customer's face. But people never, ever read signs.) Indignant, they would demand to talk to a manager. Who would, of course, say to them exactly what I said. And they'd go spread their indignation somewhere else.
What bastards we are -- following the rules. Pshaw!
"Will you be paying with cash or credit?"
"A check."
Grr!
Even better (and by "better" I mean "more annoying") is when I tell them we don't take checks, and they ask to speak to the manager. Why? How exactly do you think that conversation is going to go?
"We don't accept checks."
"But I want to use a check."
"Oh, well, then okay. We'll take a check."
Is that what you think the manager is going to say? Man, whose idea do you think it was to stop taking checks in the first place? The manager.
I ran into similar problems back at that rental car job. To get a car from us, you needed to have -- among other things -- a valid driver's license. When someone would hand me an expired license, I'd hand it back and explain the rules. (The rules, of course, were displayed on a large sign not two feet from the customer's face. But people never, ever read signs.) Indignant, they would demand to talk to a manager. Who would, of course, say to them exactly what I said. And they'd go spread their indignation somewhere else.
What bastards we are -- following the rules. Pshaw!
Monday, December 24, 2007
Saturday Night Specials, Part 3: Rock you like a hurricane
A Saturday night. 9:35 p.m.
It started, as so many problems do at Pizza Place, with a phone call. Of course, I answered it.
"Thank you for calling Pizza Place, how can I help you?"
A woman yelled at me in a thick southern accent. "How much is y'all medium pizzas?"
I cringed and resisted the urge to correct the woman's horrific corruption of English. "For pickup or delivery?"
"For deliver."
Cringe. "A one-topping is $8.99."
Muffled shouting -- she had covered the receiver to relay the message to the others. After a moment, she said to me, "A'right," and hung up. I thought nothing more of it.
About twenty minutes later, the phone rang again. Mini Boss picked it up this time, but I recognized the number on the caller ID. The same woman as before. I went about my business.
Four minutes later, I noticed him still on the phone with the same woman. He had yet to write anything on the order pad. The look on his face suggested pain.
He listened for a few more moments, then covered the receiver and spoke to me. "This stupid bitch can't make up her mind," he said. Oh: have I never mentioned that Mini Boss hates the customers even more than I do? No?
Finally, after several minutes of debate with several of her cohorts, she came back with her order: a medium pepperoni pizza. Clearly, a lot of negotiation went into that one. Mini Boss wrote it down, and gave her the total price, which came out to about eleven dollars.
"Wait," she said. "You said it was $8.99."
"It is," he said. "But there's a delivery charge, plus sales tax."
"A delivery charge? For what?"
"For...delivery?" Remember what I said about questions impossible to answer without sounding like a smartass?
"We only have ten dollars," she said. Mini Boss had no real response -- what was he supposed to say? Oh, if you only have ten dollars, I guess we'll charge you that?
When he didn't suddenly explode with generosity, she dropped her bomb: "We're Katrina victims."
Now. Hurricane Katrina was one of the most destructive natural disasters this country has ever seen. Nearly two thousand people were killed, and many more lost their homes and had their lives destroyed. Our area became a relocation center for many of those victims, and their story is a familiar one. I'm all for lending a hand to those who need it, and I understand the horrible toll Katrina took. I'd like to think that if I'm ever affected by such a tragedy, I can rely on the empathy and kindness of strangers to help me through it (as I did a few times during the agonizing evacuation of Hurricane Rita, but that's a story for another time). I wouldn't mind helping someone out.
But if I remember correctly -- and I'd like to think that I do -- Hurricane Katrina swept across New Orleans in September of 2005...and this story occurred last Saturday.
You're using a disaster from two years ago to try to weasel your way out of two dollars on a fucking pizza order? Huh?
Undeterred by this shocking display of depravity, Mini Boss calmly explained that the price wasn't changing. (Later, we decided it would've been better if he'd said, "I see your Katrina, and raise you a childhood growing up surrounded by bombs and death in my native Iran. What you got?")
Over the next seven minutes (!), the Katrina victim handed the phone to several of her cohorts, who each -- one at a time, one after the other -- proceeded to complain about the price and beg for a discount. When one was not provided, they became angry. Mini Boss remained calm.
Finally, they decided to go ahead and take the order. A medium pepperoni pizza. Total persons spoken to: six. Total telephone time: thirteen minutes.
With it completed, the woman who had finally ended up with the phone asked how long the delivery would take. They live just around the corner, but as previously established, our stock answer is "Thirty to forty-five minutes."
"You don't know better than that?" she said. "I mean, how long is it gonna be? Thirty minutes, forty-two minutes, fifty-three minutes, forty-seven minutes, fifty-eight minutes, what?" Mini Boss reported peals of laughter in the background during this rant, so apparently she thought she was being funny.
Fortunately -- because the Prophets are sometimes kind -- I didn't have to deliver that one. But the driver who did came back in a frenzy.
"Those fucking assholes!" he yelled, tossing the warmer bag onto the counter. "They tried to rip me off!"
Apparently, when he arrived at their apartment, he found a party underway. It took many minutes for the one responsible for the pizza to come the door, and when they did, they didn't immediately produce the money. The driver, foolishly, handed this person the pizza anyway. (Big, big mistake, my friends. Never hand off the pizza until you see the money. I've seen enough drug and weapons deals gone bad in the movies and Grand Theft Auto to know that.) When the bankroll finally arrived, she thrust a sweaty wad of crumpled bills and loose change into his hand, said, "There ya go!" and tried to close the door.
"Whoa," he said. "Not so fast." He counted out the money, which took several minutes -- seriously, it was almost all nickels and dimes. And, as you may have guessed, it was almost two dollars short.
He told her so, and she replied, "Well, that's all we got."
"Then give me the pizza back."
"But they're already eating it."
"I don't care. Either you give me the money, give me the pizza, or I'm calling the cops." I can't vouch for the veracity of this dialogue, since I wasn't there, but it sounds plausible enough.
The bankroll chose the first option, and spent several more minutes gathering together change. When it was all presented and counted to the penny, the driver turned to leave. As he did so, the door slammed shut behind me, followed by more peals of laughter. "Oh yeah?" he said to the door. "Well, we're never coming back here again, laugh at that!" They did so.
"I'm never going back there again," the driver told us. "Never. I don't give a shit." I asked Mini Boss if he thought we should add them to the list, but the phone rang before he could answer.
Guess who? Our Katrina victims were calling back...to complain.
This person told Mini Boss that the pizza they received was thin crust, not thick as they'd ordered, and it was cold. Mini Boss, though, had had all he could stands, and he couldn't stands no more.
"No, it wasn't. I made that pizza myself, and it was exactly what you asked for. And it wasn't cold, because we delivered it in ten minutes. And then you tried to scam my driver, so don't you ever fucking call here again."
The response? A surprisingly mellow, "Okay." And they hung up. No arguing, no laughing -- just acquiescence.
Mini Boss turned to tell me to put them on the list -- but I'd already done it. Synergy!
Is there a lesson? Sure -- being the survivor of a tragedy doesn't give you license to act like a gaping asshole. Assuming they were Katrina victims in the first place. Which I kind of doubt. If there's anything more craven than playing on people's sympathies two years later to save a few dollars, it would faking victimhood to do the same.
Hell is other people.
It started, as so many problems do at Pizza Place, with a phone call. Of course, I answered it.
"Thank you for calling Pizza Place, how can I help you?"
A woman yelled at me in a thick southern accent. "How much is y'all medium pizzas?"
I cringed and resisted the urge to correct the woman's horrific corruption of English. "For pickup or delivery?"
"For deliver."
Cringe. "A one-topping is $8.99."
Muffled shouting -- she had covered the receiver to relay the message to the others. After a moment, she said to me, "A'right," and hung up. I thought nothing more of it.
About twenty minutes later, the phone rang again. Mini Boss picked it up this time, but I recognized the number on the caller ID. The same woman as before. I went about my business.
Four minutes later, I noticed him still on the phone with the same woman. He had yet to write anything on the order pad. The look on his face suggested pain.
He listened for a few more moments, then covered the receiver and spoke to me. "This stupid bitch can't make up her mind," he said. Oh: have I never mentioned that Mini Boss hates the customers even more than I do? No?
Finally, after several minutes of debate with several of her cohorts, she came back with her order: a medium pepperoni pizza. Clearly, a lot of negotiation went into that one. Mini Boss wrote it down, and gave her the total price, which came out to about eleven dollars.
"Wait," she said. "You said it was $8.99."
"It is," he said. "But there's a delivery charge, plus sales tax."
"A delivery charge? For what?"
"For...delivery?" Remember what I said about questions impossible to answer without sounding like a smartass?
"We only have ten dollars," she said. Mini Boss had no real response -- what was he supposed to say? Oh, if you only have ten dollars, I guess we'll charge you that?
When he didn't suddenly explode with generosity, she dropped her bomb: "We're Katrina victims."
Now. Hurricane Katrina was one of the most destructive natural disasters this country has ever seen. Nearly two thousand people were killed, and many more lost their homes and had their lives destroyed. Our area became a relocation center for many of those victims, and their story is a familiar one. I'm all for lending a hand to those who need it, and I understand the horrible toll Katrina took. I'd like to think that if I'm ever affected by such a tragedy, I can rely on the empathy and kindness of strangers to help me through it (as I did a few times during the agonizing evacuation of Hurricane Rita, but that's a story for another time). I wouldn't mind helping someone out.
But if I remember correctly -- and I'd like to think that I do -- Hurricane Katrina swept across New Orleans in September of 2005...and this story occurred last Saturday.
You're using a disaster from two years ago to try to weasel your way out of two dollars on a fucking pizza order? Huh?
Undeterred by this shocking display of depravity, Mini Boss calmly explained that the price wasn't changing. (Later, we decided it would've been better if he'd said, "I see your Katrina, and raise you a childhood growing up surrounded by bombs and death in my native Iran. What you got?")
Over the next seven minutes (!), the Katrina victim handed the phone to several of her cohorts, who each -- one at a time, one after the other -- proceeded to complain about the price and beg for a discount. When one was not provided, they became angry. Mini Boss remained calm.
Finally, they decided to go ahead and take the order. A medium pepperoni pizza. Total persons spoken to: six. Total telephone time: thirteen minutes.
With it completed, the woman who had finally ended up with the phone asked how long the delivery would take. They live just around the corner, but as previously established, our stock answer is "Thirty to forty-five minutes."
"You don't know better than that?" she said. "I mean, how long is it gonna be? Thirty minutes, forty-two minutes, fifty-three minutes, forty-seven minutes, fifty-eight minutes, what?" Mini Boss reported peals of laughter in the background during this rant, so apparently she thought she was being funny.
Fortunately -- because the Prophets are sometimes kind -- I didn't have to deliver that one. But the driver who did came back in a frenzy.
"Those fucking assholes!" he yelled, tossing the warmer bag onto the counter. "They tried to rip me off!"
Apparently, when he arrived at their apartment, he found a party underway. It took many minutes for the one responsible for the pizza to come the door, and when they did, they didn't immediately produce the money. The driver, foolishly, handed this person the pizza anyway. (Big, big mistake, my friends. Never hand off the pizza until you see the money. I've seen enough drug and weapons deals gone bad in the movies and Grand Theft Auto to know that.) When the bankroll finally arrived, she thrust a sweaty wad of crumpled bills and loose change into his hand, said, "There ya go!" and tried to close the door.
"Whoa," he said. "Not so fast." He counted out the money, which took several minutes -- seriously, it was almost all nickels and dimes. And, as you may have guessed, it was almost two dollars short.
He told her so, and she replied, "Well, that's all we got."
"Then give me the pizza back."
"But they're already eating it."
"I don't care. Either you give me the money, give me the pizza, or I'm calling the cops." I can't vouch for the veracity of this dialogue, since I wasn't there, but it sounds plausible enough.
The bankroll chose the first option, and spent several more minutes gathering together change. When it was all presented and counted to the penny, the driver turned to leave. As he did so, the door slammed shut behind me, followed by more peals of laughter. "Oh yeah?" he said to the door. "Well, we're never coming back here again, laugh at that!" They did so.
"I'm never going back there again," the driver told us. "Never. I don't give a shit." I asked Mini Boss if he thought we should add them to the list, but the phone rang before he could answer.
Guess who? Our Katrina victims were calling back...to complain.
This person told Mini Boss that the pizza they received was thin crust, not thick as they'd ordered, and it was cold. Mini Boss, though, had had all he could stands, and he couldn't stands no more.
"No, it wasn't. I made that pizza myself, and it was exactly what you asked for. And it wasn't cold, because we delivered it in ten minutes. And then you tried to scam my driver, so don't you ever fucking call here again."
The response? A surprisingly mellow, "Okay." And they hung up. No arguing, no laughing -- just acquiescence.
Mini Boss turned to tell me to put them on the list -- but I'd already done it. Synergy!
Is there a lesson? Sure -- being the survivor of a tragedy doesn't give you license to act like a gaping asshole. Assuming they were Katrina victims in the first place. Which I kind of doubt. If there's anything more craven than playing on people's sympathies two years later to save a few dollars, it would faking victimhood to do the same.
Hell is other people.
Saturday, December 22, 2007
Saturday Night Specials, Part 2: This is what Adam Sandler characters would be like in real life
[Sorry for the lateness. I had some car-related issues that were a distraction, not to mention the enormous amount of time I spent in the Animus, reliving the memories of Altaïr's efforts to end the Crusades. A thousand apologies.]
The man's name is Shindledecker. We know this because it shows up on the caller ID. I'm sure he has a first name, but we've long since forgotten it. He occupies a special place on our "no delivery" list -- separate from all other names, in its own section, reads a quick, dirty scrawl:
SHINDLEDECKER
[his phone number]
NO DELIVERY
NO PICKUP
"GET THE FUCK OUT"
"If he comes in here again," Mini Boss told us all, "that's what I want you to say to him: get the fuck out of here. Exactly those words."
Late one Saturday night, the phone rang. One of our servers answered the phone, as Mini Boss and I were in the dining room discussing something on the television. I saw her talking on the phone for a minute, scribbling onto an order pad. She looked puzzled for a moment, then put the customer on hold. To me, she said, "An extra large pizza is $9.99?"
"For one topping, yeah."
"How much for an extra topping?"
"Two dollars."
"What if it's just on half?"
"Still two dollars." This is Pizza Place policy. I don't know if it works like that everywhere else -- Mini Boss and Big Boss assure me that it does, and I don't care enough to find out. But in any event, it's mandated by Pizza Place corporate, so there's nothing we can do about it. Is it unfair? Maybe. But it's also a friggin' dollar we're talking about. This is important later.
She picked the phone back up. I watched her talk for a few more moments. She listened for a second, and then flinched -- like she'd been physically struck. She pulled the receiver away from her face and looked at it like she'd never seen one before, and then -- gingerly -- hung it up.
The way she relayed the story to us, the customer she was talking to -- this guy Shindledecker -- ordered an extra large pizza with extra cheese, and pepperoni on half. When given his total, he balked and demanded explanation. So she double-checked the cost of an extra topping with me, and confirmed it with him.
"But I'm only getting it on half," he said.
"It's still two dollars," our server said.
He repeated his original protest, and our server repeated her side. "I'm sorry," she offered.
Shindledecker scoffed. "Whatever, bitch," he said. "Just make the fucking pizza." *click*
Now, Mini Boss is not a man without his flaws. When bored -- and he bores easily -- he generally turns his wicked sense of humor on his own employees, and can get pretty nasty. This server in particular was a frequent target for ridicule, with her drug-laden past and psychotic life story. (My favorite part: her ex-husband once went crazy and tried to kill her...with a sword.)
But the one thing he absolutely will not tolerate under any circumstances is someone talking like that to one of us. (Perhaps he feels they're encroaching on his turf.) Give any Pizza Place employee any crap, and you will find Mini Boss in your face in a matter of seconds.
So after Shindledecker's unkind comments to our server, Mini Boss was no mood to placate the man. He made the pizza, exactly as ordered, and we waited.
There's an episode of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine where Worf is put on trial for accidentally destroying a civilian passenger carrier during a fight with Klingons. Quark is called as a witness, and reflects on a conversation he shared with Worf before he left on the mission -- Quark asked about the possibility of a Klingon attack. "Then he got his really weird look on his face, and he said...'I hope they do.'"
Mini Boss had that look on his face.
Ten minutes later, Shindledecker arrived. We recognized him -- he'd come in quite a few times before, we just didn't know his name. Calmly, politely, he stepped to the counter and asked for his pizza. Mini Boss gave him his total -- the same total the server had told him.
"But I'm only getting the pepperoni on half," Shindledecker said -- again, calmly.
"Yeah, I'm sorry, sir, but it's still--"
"FUCK YOU!!!" Shindledecker screamed. He pounded his fist on the counter, then spun on his heel and marched to the door. "THIS IS FUCKING BULLSHIT!! FUCK YOU FUCKERS!! AAAHH!!!"
He threw open the front door, stepped outside, and slammed the thing shut -- slammed it so hard the impact reverberated through all the other windows in the building, and came pretty close to breaking it altogether.
Mini Boss -- who had been waiting for an outburst, but nothing like that -- reached under the counter and grabbed his gun. Who knew if this crazy fucker was coming back in?
We saw the crazy man get in his car, still yelling (to himself) about this injustice. Mini Boss ran out after him and yelled, "Don't you ever fucking come in here again!" Shindledecker made as if he was coming out of the car, but saw the gun in Mini Boss's hand and drove away instead. Mini Boss came back in, stowed his firearm, and made the aforementioned note on our no service list.
He hasn't come back since. I guess he wasn't willing to risk getting shot.
Over a dollar.
The man's name is Shindledecker. We know this because it shows up on the caller ID. I'm sure he has a first name, but we've long since forgotten it. He occupies a special place on our "no delivery" list -- separate from all other names, in its own section, reads a quick, dirty scrawl:
SHINDLEDECKER
[his phone number]
NO DELIVERY
NO PICKUP
"GET THE FUCK OUT"
"If he comes in here again," Mini Boss told us all, "that's what I want you to say to him: get the fuck out of here. Exactly those words."
Late one Saturday night, the phone rang. One of our servers answered the phone, as Mini Boss and I were in the dining room discussing something on the television. I saw her talking on the phone for a minute, scribbling onto an order pad. She looked puzzled for a moment, then put the customer on hold. To me, she said, "An extra large pizza is $9.99?"
"For one topping, yeah."
"How much for an extra topping?"
"Two dollars."
"What if it's just on half?"
"Still two dollars." This is Pizza Place policy. I don't know if it works like that everywhere else -- Mini Boss and Big Boss assure me that it does, and I don't care enough to find out. But in any event, it's mandated by Pizza Place corporate, so there's nothing we can do about it. Is it unfair? Maybe. But it's also a friggin' dollar we're talking about. This is important later.
She picked the phone back up. I watched her talk for a few more moments. She listened for a second, and then flinched -- like she'd been physically struck. She pulled the receiver away from her face and looked at it like she'd never seen one before, and then -- gingerly -- hung it up.
The way she relayed the story to us, the customer she was talking to -- this guy Shindledecker -- ordered an extra large pizza with extra cheese, and pepperoni on half. When given his total, he balked and demanded explanation. So she double-checked the cost of an extra topping with me, and confirmed it with him.
"But I'm only getting it on half," he said.
"It's still two dollars," our server said.
He repeated his original protest, and our server repeated her side. "I'm sorry," she offered.
Shindledecker scoffed. "Whatever, bitch," he said. "Just make the fucking pizza." *click*
Now, Mini Boss is not a man without his flaws. When bored -- and he bores easily -- he generally turns his wicked sense of humor on his own employees, and can get pretty nasty. This server in particular was a frequent target for ridicule, with her drug-laden past and psychotic life story. (My favorite part: her ex-husband once went crazy and tried to kill her...with a sword.)
But the one thing he absolutely will not tolerate under any circumstances is someone talking like that to one of us. (Perhaps he feels they're encroaching on his turf.) Give any Pizza Place employee any crap, and you will find Mini Boss in your face in a matter of seconds.
So after Shindledecker's unkind comments to our server, Mini Boss was no mood to placate the man. He made the pizza, exactly as ordered, and we waited.
There's an episode of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine where Worf is put on trial for accidentally destroying a civilian passenger carrier during a fight with Klingons. Quark is called as a witness, and reflects on a conversation he shared with Worf before he left on the mission -- Quark asked about the possibility of a Klingon attack. "Then he got his really weird look on his face, and he said...'I hope they do.'"
Mini Boss had that look on his face.
Ten minutes later, Shindledecker arrived. We recognized him -- he'd come in quite a few times before, we just didn't know his name. Calmly, politely, he stepped to the counter and asked for his pizza. Mini Boss gave him his total -- the same total the server had told him.
"But I'm only getting the pepperoni on half," Shindledecker said -- again, calmly.
"Yeah, I'm sorry, sir, but it's still--"
"FUCK YOU!!!" Shindledecker screamed. He pounded his fist on the counter, then spun on his heel and marched to the door. "THIS IS FUCKING BULLSHIT!! FUCK YOU FUCKERS!! AAAHH!!!"
He threw open the front door, stepped outside, and slammed the thing shut -- slammed it so hard the impact reverberated through all the other windows in the building, and came pretty close to breaking it altogether.
Mini Boss -- who had been waiting for an outburst, but nothing like that -- reached under the counter and grabbed his gun. Who knew if this crazy fucker was coming back in?
We saw the crazy man get in his car, still yelling (to himself) about this injustice. Mini Boss ran out after him and yelled, "Don't you ever fucking come in here again!" Shindledecker made as if he was coming out of the car, but saw the gun in Mini Boss's hand and drove away instead. Mini Boss came back in, stowed his firearm, and made the aforementioned note on our no service list.
He hasn't come back since. I guess he wasn't willing to risk getting shot.
Over a dollar.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Saturday Night Specials, Part 1: The Malaysia Man
The crazies come out on Saturday night.
I don't know why. But our final hour of business on Saturday nights is inevitably filled with lunatics. We'll be well on our way to closing up -- cooks are putting away the food, I'm washing dishes, the servers are cleaning the dining room, Mini Boss or Big Boss is counting the money -- and the door will open to grant entrance to a living, breathing stack of crazy.
These next few entries will detail some of those special people. And we'll start with the most special of them all: the Malaysia Man.
It was about thirty minutes before closing time. I don't remember having a cook -- he may have already been sent home. But I was there, along with Mini Boss and a waitress.
The Malaysia Man entered, shuffling his feet, eyes darting back and forth. He was short, overweight, and balding. White guy, late fifties, early sixties. I think he had a hat. He made his way to the counter. The Malaysia Man smiled, a wide grin. Mini Boss greeted him.
"Can I help you?"
"YESYUCANGEMMEPEETZAWIDEMBBBBBBBBRRRAK-AK-AK!!"
"...?!"
We quickly learned that the Malaysia Man had a few...problems.
First, once he started talking to you, he couldn't seem to stop. Just constant, babble babble babble. This wouldn't be that much of an issue, really, except that he slurred every word together into an unintelligible slop, like a verbal garbage disposal. Again, that wouldn't be much a problem, either, except that he didn't really talk -- he shouted. At the top of his old man lungs.
And then, for seasoning, he'd throw a violent tic in at random intervals, just to keep you on your toes. It's almost impossible to capture in text -- the closest I can manage is bbbbbrak-ak-ak! And while he'd do that, he'd twitch his left shoulder and scrunch up his face like he was holding back a sneeze.
"GEMMEPEZAEVRTHANGGEMELOTSACHEEZBBBRAK-AK-AK!!"
I was supposed to be washing the dishes, but instead I hid behind the soda machine, watching Mini Boss try to take this guy's order. It took him about ten minutes -- and all he ordered was one pizza.
Mini Boss told the guy it'd be about fifteen minutes, and quickly retreated back to make the pizza, relieved to get away from the noise. We shared a look.
What the fuck?
But while Mini Boss had an out -- "Gotta make the pizza!" -- our poor waitress had no such escape route. She was stuck cleaning the dining room, and so had to listen to the Malaysia Man's cacophonous onslaught. I pitied her. Until I realized I would have to go out there to put some dishes away. Would I be caught as well? I grabbed the plates and eased my way out. Maybe he'd be distracted yelling at her and wouldn't see me.
No such luck -- she wasn't there. Cleaning somewhere else, I supposed. So when I stepped into the dining room, the Malaysia Man aimed and fired.
"GOTSAPEETZATAGLAFIRAETECASABBBBRRRAK-AK-AK!!"
"Uh...you bet."
Now, here's my problem: I'm unfailingly polite to the customers. So when this guy started talking to me, I didn't want to just walk away. Instead, I stood and waited for him to finish. Seven minutes later, he hadn't stopped for air. I interrupted him, telling him I had dishes to do, and slipped away before he could get going again. As I retreated, I saw Mini Boss laughing at me.
I stayed in the back, washing dishes and letting them pile up -- I could put them away after he left. No way was I getting stuck in that again. All the while, I could hear him shouting in the background -- someone was certainly getting an earful.
While I waited for a dishwashing cycle to finish, I stepped away from the machine, back to the hall that leads to the kitchen. At the other end of the restaurant, I saw Mini Boss wiping down a counter. He saw me...and froze. His face twisted in confusion. I lifted my hands, palms up -- a "What's up?" gesture.
Mini Boss crept -- slowly, ever so slowly -- from his place by the oven to where I stood. "I thought you were in the dining room," he whispered.
"No," I said. I whispered, too, but only because he had. "I've been washing dishes. Why?"
Mini Boss jerked a thumb toward the front of the building. "If you've been back here, who the fuck is he talking to?"
We were silent. We both heard him -- still shouting an unbroken stream of syllables. Together, we tiptoed back to the front, careful to make no noise. We reached the entrance to the dining room and looked out.
The Malaysia Man stood in the center of the room, leaning on a table, shouting at no one. No one at all.
"I thought he was talking to you," Mini Boss said.
"I thought he was talking to the waitress," I said.
"She went home five minutes ago," he said, and we each saw the horror on the face of the other.
It's a rare thing, to come face-to-face with actual lunacy. We use the word "crazy" casually, but when you actually see it -- actually see an old man shouting nonsense to his imaginary friend -- it's pretty frightening. And, to be honest, inexplicably hilarious.
About that time, his pizza came out of the oven. Mini Boss boxed it and presented to the man, and you could tell he was glad to be rid of him.
While paying for his order, the old man noticed the manufacturer's stamp on the cash register. Why? Who the hell knows. But he did, and he babble something about the company that made it. He also noticed a sentence printed below the logo: Made in Malaysia.
He seemed to rejoice then, and started telling us about the time he lived in Malaysia. (At least, I think that's what he was saying -- if you listened to him long enough, you could almost pick the words out. Almost.) For another two or three minutes, Mini Boss and I nodded politely and waited for him to leave.
Finally, the Malaysia Man picked up his pizza and told us he'd have to be off. He shouted that he'd love to stay, but his wife was waiting for him in the car -- she loves our pizza, that's why he always comes here. Of course, we'd never seen the guy before, but who's counting?
He turned and headed for the door. Mini Boss and I shared another look, the both of us coming to the same realization at the same time.
His wife?
We swung around to the dining room, scampering for the door, trying to get a glimpse and this lunatic's wife. We saw the man reach his car, saw him open the door and climb inside. And his wife? Well, you can answer that, can't you?
The Malaysia Man turned in his seat, still talking, and offered the pizza to his passenger: nobody. No one.
As we watched, he continued to talk. He put the pizza in the empty seat (did he think his wife was holding it?), and started the car. He kept talking, and as we watched, his speech became more animated. He started gesturing violently with one hand, and then we realized -- he was arguing. With no one.
The Malaysia Man screamed in defiance at his hypothetical companion for a few more minutes, and then -- finally-- put his car in gear and drove away.
Mini Boss and I watched in silence for a moment. We turned to one another.
"What the fuck?" he said.
And then we just couldn't stop laughing.
I don't know why. But our final hour of business on Saturday nights is inevitably filled with lunatics. We'll be well on our way to closing up -- cooks are putting away the food, I'm washing dishes, the servers are cleaning the dining room, Mini Boss or Big Boss is counting the money -- and the door will open to grant entrance to a living, breathing stack of crazy.
These next few entries will detail some of those special people. And we'll start with the most special of them all: the Malaysia Man.
It was about thirty minutes before closing time. I don't remember having a cook -- he may have already been sent home. But I was there, along with Mini Boss and a waitress.
The Malaysia Man entered, shuffling his feet, eyes darting back and forth. He was short, overweight, and balding. White guy, late fifties, early sixties. I think he had a hat. He made his way to the counter. The Malaysia Man smiled, a wide grin. Mini Boss greeted him.
"Can I help you?"
"YESYUCANGEMMEPEETZAWIDEMBBBBBBBBRRRAK-AK-AK!!"
"...?!"
We quickly learned that the Malaysia Man had a few...problems.
First, once he started talking to you, he couldn't seem to stop. Just constant, babble babble babble. This wouldn't be that much of an issue, really, except that he slurred every word together into an unintelligible slop, like a verbal garbage disposal. Again, that wouldn't be much a problem, either, except that he didn't really talk -- he shouted. At the top of his old man lungs.
And then, for seasoning, he'd throw a violent tic in at random intervals, just to keep you on your toes. It's almost impossible to capture in text -- the closest I can manage is bbbbbrak-ak-ak! And while he'd do that, he'd twitch his left shoulder and scrunch up his face like he was holding back a sneeze.
"GEMMEPEZAEVRTHANGGEMELOTSACHEEZBBBRAK-AK-AK!!"
I was supposed to be washing the dishes, but instead I hid behind the soda machine, watching Mini Boss try to take this guy's order. It took him about ten minutes -- and all he ordered was one pizza.
Mini Boss told the guy it'd be about fifteen minutes, and quickly retreated back to make the pizza, relieved to get away from the noise. We shared a look.
What the fuck?
But while Mini Boss had an out -- "Gotta make the pizza!" -- our poor waitress had no such escape route. She was stuck cleaning the dining room, and so had to listen to the Malaysia Man's cacophonous onslaught. I pitied her. Until I realized I would have to go out there to put some dishes away. Would I be caught as well? I grabbed the plates and eased my way out. Maybe he'd be distracted yelling at her and wouldn't see me.
No such luck -- she wasn't there. Cleaning somewhere else, I supposed. So when I stepped into the dining room, the Malaysia Man aimed and fired.
"GOTSAPEETZATAGLAFIRAETECASABBBBRRRAK-AK-AK!!"
"Uh...you bet."
Now, here's my problem: I'm unfailingly polite to the customers. So when this guy started talking to me, I didn't want to just walk away. Instead, I stood and waited for him to finish. Seven minutes later, he hadn't stopped for air. I interrupted him, telling him I had dishes to do, and slipped away before he could get going again. As I retreated, I saw Mini Boss laughing at me.
I stayed in the back, washing dishes and letting them pile up -- I could put them away after he left. No way was I getting stuck in that again. All the while, I could hear him shouting in the background -- someone was certainly getting an earful.
While I waited for a dishwashing cycle to finish, I stepped away from the machine, back to the hall that leads to the kitchen. At the other end of the restaurant, I saw Mini Boss wiping down a counter. He saw me...and froze. His face twisted in confusion. I lifted my hands, palms up -- a "What's up?" gesture.
Mini Boss crept -- slowly, ever so slowly -- from his place by the oven to where I stood. "I thought you were in the dining room," he whispered.
"No," I said. I whispered, too, but only because he had. "I've been washing dishes. Why?"
Mini Boss jerked a thumb toward the front of the building. "If you've been back here, who the fuck is he talking to?"
We were silent. We both heard him -- still shouting an unbroken stream of syllables. Together, we tiptoed back to the front, careful to make no noise. We reached the entrance to the dining room and looked out.
The Malaysia Man stood in the center of the room, leaning on a table, shouting at no one. No one at all.
"I thought he was talking to you," Mini Boss said.
"I thought he was talking to the waitress," I said.
"She went home five minutes ago," he said, and we each saw the horror on the face of the other.
It's a rare thing, to come face-to-face with actual lunacy. We use the word "crazy" casually, but when you actually see it -- actually see an old man shouting nonsense to his imaginary friend -- it's pretty frightening. And, to be honest, inexplicably hilarious.
About that time, his pizza came out of the oven. Mini Boss boxed it and presented to the man, and you could tell he was glad to be rid of him.
While paying for his order, the old man noticed the manufacturer's stamp on the cash register. Why? Who the hell knows. But he did, and he babble something about the company that made it. He also noticed a sentence printed below the logo: Made in Malaysia.
He seemed to rejoice then, and started telling us about the time he lived in Malaysia. (At least, I think that's what he was saying -- if you listened to him long enough, you could almost pick the words out. Almost.) For another two or three minutes, Mini Boss and I nodded politely and waited for him to leave.
Finally, the Malaysia Man picked up his pizza and told us he'd have to be off. He shouted that he'd love to stay, but his wife was waiting for him in the car -- she loves our pizza, that's why he always comes here. Of course, we'd never seen the guy before, but who's counting?
He turned and headed for the door. Mini Boss and I shared another look, the both of us coming to the same realization at the same time.
His wife?
We swung around to the dining room, scampering for the door, trying to get a glimpse and this lunatic's wife. We saw the man reach his car, saw him open the door and climb inside. And his wife? Well, you can answer that, can't you?
The Malaysia Man turned in his seat, still talking, and offered the pizza to his passenger: nobody. No one.
As we watched, he continued to talk. He put the pizza in the empty seat (did he think his wife was holding it?), and started the car. He kept talking, and as we watched, his speech became more animated. He started gesturing violently with one hand, and then we realized -- he was arguing. With no one.
The Malaysia Man screamed in defiance at his hypothetical companion for a few more minutes, and then -- finally-- put his car in gear and drove away.
Mini Boss and I watched in silence for a moment. We turned to one another.
"What the fuck?" he said.
And then we just couldn't stop laughing.
Friday, December 14, 2007
There are only two choices, sir, and that's not one of them
I got this one about fourteen times tonight:
"Will this order be for pickup or for delivery?"
"Yes."
"..."
See also:
"Will you be paying with cash or with a credit card?"
"Yes."
"..."
"Will this order be for pickup or for delivery?"
"Yes."
"..."
See also:
"Will you be paying with cash or with a credit card?"
"Yes."
"..."
Thursday, December 13, 2007
You've got to be shitting me
[I missed a day. Sorry about that. I'll make up for it on Monday, when I post my favorite story ever. In the meantime: a poop story.]
A couple ate dinner at Pizza Place. They paid for their food and left with nary a comment or complaint.
Fifteen minutes later, the man called us. Mini Boss answered the phone. The man presented us with an...interesting problem.
"Yeah, I'm over at the video store next door to you guys right now, and...my wife just shit all over herself."
"...Um, what?"
"Yeah, she just shit everywhere. She is very embarrassed. Now, I think maybe the Italian sausage was bad. She said it tasted funny, I mean, I tasted it myself, but..."
"..."
"...So..."
The man goes on to imply that she's stricken with food poisoning thanks to our rancid Italian sausage. Mini Boss proceeds to offer the following:
The man asks us to refund his money. "I mean, if you wanna do that, we can settle this that way." Mini Boss refuses -- if you knew Mini Boss, you'd know better than that. The man threatens to call a lawyer, and Mini Boss invites him to do just that. The man claims he will.
Never heard from him again.
A couple ate dinner at Pizza Place. They paid for their food and left with nary a comment or complaint.
Fifteen minutes later, the man called us. Mini Boss answered the phone. The man presented us with an...interesting problem.
"Yeah, I'm over at the video store next door to you guys right now, and...my wife just shit all over herself."
"...Um, what?"
"Yeah, she just shit everywhere. She is very embarrassed. Now, I think maybe the Italian sausage was bad. She said it tasted funny, I mean, I tasted it myself, but..."
"..."
"...So..."
The man goes on to imply that she's stricken with food poisoning thanks to our rancid Italian sausage. Mini Boss proceeds to offer the following:
- No one else who ate the Italian sausage has reported being ill.
- Food poisoning generally takes longer than fifteen minutes to set in.
The man asks us to refund his money. "I mean, if you wanna do that, we can settle this that way." Mini Boss refuses -- if you knew Mini Boss, you'd know better than that. The man threatens to call a lawyer, and Mini Boss invites him to do just that. The man claims he will.
Never heard from him again.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
At least he was willing to admit it
Remember what I said before, about questions you can't answer without sounding like a smart ass?
"Thank you for calling Pizza Place, can I help you?"
"Yeah, do you have any specials?"
"We have two large two-topping pizzas for $18.99."
"Two-topping?"
"Yes, sir."
"...Um. Huh. Okay. Well...okay. I know you're gonna think I'm an idiot, that this is a stupid question. But...what is a two-topping pizza?"
"A...pizza with two toppings?"
"Thank you for calling Pizza Place, can I help you?"
"Yeah, do you have any specials?"
"We have two large two-topping pizzas for $18.99."
"Two-topping?"
"Yes, sir."
"...Um. Huh. Okay. Well...okay. I know you're gonna think I'm an idiot, that this is a stupid question. But...what is a two-topping pizza?"
"A...pizza with two toppings?"
Saturday, December 8, 2007
...?
The phone rings.
"Thank you for calling Pizza Place, can I help you?"
"Yes, do you have Chinese food?"
"Um, this is Pizza Place."
"Yes. Do you have Chinese food?"
"...No."
"Really? Dammit." *hangs up*
"Thank you for calling Pizza Place, can I help you?"
"Yes, do you have Chinese food?"
"Um, this is Pizza Place."
"Yes. Do you have Chinese food?"
"...No."
"Really? Dammit." *hangs up*
Thursday, December 6, 2007
All we have right now is this box of one dozen starving crazed weasels
On Monday, a friend of mine and I decided to order some pizza. Just like everyone else, we didn't go for Pizza Place -- I got online and ordered from Pizza Conglomerate. My friend wanted beef, bacon and extra cheese on his pizza; I opted for chicken, bacon and jalapeños on mine.
Not more than three minutes after finalizing and sending my order from their website, an entirely too cheerful employee of Pizza Conglomerate called me. "I'm sorry, sir," she said, "but we're out of bacon." My friend and I conversed, and we each decided to replace the bacon on our pizzas with pepperoni. "Okay!" the employee squeaked, and hung up.
A few minutes later, she called me back. "I'm sorry, sir," she said, failing to withhold a giggle, "but we're also out of chicken."
"Hmm," I said. "Do you have...Canadian bacon?"
"No, we're out of Canadian bacon."
"Well, in that case...in that case what do you have?"
"We have everything except bacon, chicken, Canadian bacon, green peppers, sausage, green olives, and black olives." By my math, that leaves beef, Italian sausage and onions.
I settled for Italian sausage. And the knowledge that despite our antipathetic managers, mentally challenged wait staff, and a delivery driver who so hates his own customers that he's started a website devoted to calling them stupid (Hi!), Pizza Place is somehow better than Pizza Conglomerate.
Not more than three minutes after finalizing and sending my order from their website, an entirely too cheerful employee of Pizza Conglomerate called me. "I'm sorry, sir," she said, "but we're out of bacon." My friend and I conversed, and we each decided to replace the bacon on our pizzas with pepperoni. "Okay!" the employee squeaked, and hung up.
A few minutes later, she called me back. "I'm sorry, sir," she said, failing to withhold a giggle, "but we're also out of chicken."
"Hmm," I said. "Do you have...Canadian bacon?"
"No, we're out of Canadian bacon."
"Well, in that case...in that case what do you have?"
"We have everything except bacon, chicken, Canadian bacon, green peppers, sausage, green olives, and black olives." By my math, that leaves beef, Italian sausage and onions.
I settled for Italian sausage. And the knowledge that despite our antipathetic managers, mentally challenged wait staff, and a delivery driver who so hates his own customers that he's started a website devoted to calling them stupid (Hi!), Pizza Place is somehow better than Pizza Conglomerate.
Monday, December 3, 2007
The Law of Customer Ignorance
When several people gather together and decide to order pizza, the telephone duties will be given to the person in the room with the least knowledge.
"Thank you for calling Pizza Place, can I help you?"
"I need to place an order for delivery."
"What's your name?"
"Uh...hey, what name are we putting it under?"
"What's your phone number?"
"Uh...hey, what's your phone number?"
"What's your address?"
"Uh...hey, what's the address?"
"What would you like to order?"
"Uh...hey, what do we want?"
"How are you going to pay?"
"Uh...hey, are we paying with cash, or what? Do you have cash?"
And of course, each of these questions will be asked of the same person, who is standing right next to the guy with the phone. It will occur to neither of them to simply have the person with all this knowledge speak to me directly.
"Thank you for calling Pizza Place, can I help you?"
"I need to place an order for delivery."
"What's your name?"
"Uh...hey, what name are we putting it under?"
"What's your phone number?"
"Uh...hey, what's your phone number?"
"What's your address?"
"Uh...hey, what's the address?"
"What would you like to order?"
"Uh...hey, what do we want?"
"How are you going to pay?"
"Uh...hey, are we paying with cash, or what? Do you have cash?"
And of course, each of these questions will be asked of the same person, who is standing right next to the guy with the phone. It will occur to neither of them to simply have the person with all this knowledge speak to me directly.
Friday, November 30, 2007
He was just checking
We open at 11 a.m. Of course, people have to get there before we open -- set up the pizza-making table, turn on the ovens, lay out the salad bar.
Mini Boss arrived at Pizza Place one Sunday last year shortly before eleven. He found a old man sitting in his car outside, waiting for us to open. Mini Boss went inside and started setting things up.
Come eleven, Mini Boss strolled over to our front window. Sure enough, the old man was still sitting outside, waiting. Mini Boss made eye contact with him for a moment, then turned on the open sign.
And the old man promptly...started his car, shifted into reverse, and drove away.
We never saw him again.
Mini Boss arrived at Pizza Place one Sunday last year shortly before eleven. He found a old man sitting in his car outside, waiting for us to open. Mini Boss went inside and started setting things up.
Come eleven, Mini Boss strolled over to our front window. Sure enough, the old man was still sitting outside, waiting. Mini Boss made eye contact with him for a moment, then turned on the open sign.
And the old man promptly...started his car, shifted into reverse, and drove away.
We never saw him again.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
With friends like these
Of course, not all the idiots are on the opposite side of the counter. There are plenty of dolts who end up on our payroll. And frankly, they're a lot more annoying than the customers.
During one lunch buffet, we became unexpectedly busy. Big Boss happened to glance at the parking lot and saw that someone had parked their car poorly, taking up several spaces and impeding other customers. Cursory investigation revealed that one our of waitresses owned the car in question.
Big Boss went to the waitress. "Can you move your car?" he said. "You're blocking the spaces." She nodded, and then proceeded to...not do it.
A short while later, Big Boss asked her again. She agreed again, and then again didn't do it.
Big Boss again confronted her. "Will you move your car? Please?" The incoming customers were quickly filling the available spaces, and more were on the way.
So the waitress walked outside, got into her car, pulled it out of the space...and drove away. She just went home.
Never came back.
During one lunch buffet, we became unexpectedly busy. Big Boss happened to glance at the parking lot and saw that someone had parked their car poorly, taking up several spaces and impeding other customers. Cursory investigation revealed that one our of waitresses owned the car in question.
Big Boss went to the waitress. "Can you move your car?" he said. "You're blocking the spaces." She nodded, and then proceeded to...not do it.
A short while later, Big Boss asked her again. She agreed again, and then again didn't do it.
Big Boss again confronted her. "Will you move your car? Please?" The incoming customers were quickly filling the available spaces, and more were on the way.
So the waitress walked outside, got into her car, pulled it out of the space...and drove away. She just went home.
Never came back.
Monday, November 26, 2007
Allow 6-8 weeks for delivery, please no C.O.D.s
There is a difference between learning something and memorizing it by rote.
Let's try an exercise: I want you to get up from your computer and find the person nearest to you who was raised in the United States. If they wouldn't mind, have them recite the Pledge of Allegiance. Go ahead, I'll be here when you get back. (I guess if you're alone, you can do it yourself. But hurry up, Heroes is about to start.)
Back? Okay. I'm willing to bet serious money that, if they complied with your strange request, it came out sounding like this:
"I pledge allegiance - to the flag - of the United States of America [longer pause], and to the Republic - for which it stands - one nation - under God - indivisible - with liberty and justice for all."
It did, didn't it? Why? Because that's how they were taught to say it in kindergarten, with those big gaps. Because they memorized it by rote. They didn't learn it, they were taught to repeat it and never, ever thought about what they were saying.
This is what happens when you memorize something as opposed to learning it. When you memorize something, it stays in its original formation in your head, and becomes much more difficult to come up with in any other shape.
Which is why I often get this deluge of information when people are trying to get a pizza delivered:
"What's your address?"
[in one breath] "3125 Archer Street, Apartment 2-F, Dickinson, Texas, 77539."
Now. You want to argue that the city is justified, go ahead -- we only deliver in this particular town, but there are several little wide spots in the road in our vicinity, so it's feasible that we deliver to them.
But the state? How big do you think our delivery area is?
"How long will it take to get a pizza delivered?"
"Where are you?"
"Oklahoma."
"Um...about twelve hours."
"All right then. You need my phone number?"
But the truly fabulous one, to me, is the ZIP code. The ZIP code? Are we going to mail you your pizza?
"How much is a supreme pizza?"
"$15.99, plus $4.95 for shipping and handling."
Of course, most people don't even realize what a ZIP code is for. And it doesn't occur to them to not say it, just as it doesn't occur to them to not tell me what state they're in. When they moved to wherever it is they are, they couldn't just remember their address, so they had to memorize it, like a kindergartener, in one big unbroken block. Why?
Because they're idiots.
Let's try an exercise: I want you to get up from your computer and find the person nearest to you who was raised in the United States. If they wouldn't mind, have them recite the Pledge of Allegiance. Go ahead, I'll be here when you get back. (I guess if you're alone, you can do it yourself. But hurry up, Heroes is about to start.)
Back? Okay. I'm willing to bet serious money that, if they complied with your strange request, it came out sounding like this:
"I pledge allegiance - to the flag - of the United States of America [longer pause], and to the Republic - for which it stands - one nation - under God - indivisible - with liberty and justice for all."
It did, didn't it? Why? Because that's how they were taught to say it in kindergarten, with those big gaps. Because they memorized it by rote. They didn't learn it, they were taught to repeat it and never, ever thought about what they were saying.
This is what happens when you memorize something as opposed to learning it. When you memorize something, it stays in its original formation in your head, and becomes much more difficult to come up with in any other shape.
Which is why I often get this deluge of information when people are trying to get a pizza delivered:
"What's your address?"
[in one breath] "3125 Archer Street, Apartment 2-F, Dickinson, Texas, 77539."
Now. You want to argue that the city is justified, go ahead -- we only deliver in this particular town, but there are several little wide spots in the road in our vicinity, so it's feasible that we deliver to them.
But the state? How big do you think our delivery area is?
"How long will it take to get a pizza delivered?"
"Where are you?"
"Oklahoma."
"Um...about twelve hours."
"All right then. You need my phone number?"
But the truly fabulous one, to me, is the ZIP code. The ZIP code? Are we going to mail you your pizza?
"How much is a supreme pizza?"
"$15.99, plus $4.95 for shipping and handling."
Of course, most people don't even realize what a ZIP code is for. And it doesn't occur to them to not say it, just as it doesn't occur to them to not tell me what state they're in. When they moved to wherever it is they are, they couldn't just remember their address, so they had to memorize it, like a kindergartener, in one big unbroken block. Why?
Because they're idiots.
Friday, November 23, 2007
Clerks: a documentary, part 2
If you've seen Clerks, you'll remember one of its running gags. At the beginning of the film, Dante arrives at the store to find that a vandal has jammed gum in the locks of the steel shutters over the windows. Since it gives the impression that the store isn't open, Dante grabs a white sheet and some shoe polish and constructs a sign that reads, in three-foot-high letters, "YES! I ASSURE YOU WE ARE OPEN!" Despite this, every customer who wanders into the store asks him, "Are you open?"
At Pizza Place, we were closed yesterday for Thanksgiving. We're generally closed on those big holidays -- Fourth of July, Thanksgiving, Christmas. But a few years ago, Big Boss decided to stay open for Christmas.
We were just about the only business open that day, so we did some brisk business. But the pleasant amount of money I made wasn't quite worth the annoying phone calls I had to answer all day.
Every phone call -- every pickup order, every delivery order, every last bloody phone call -- began as follows:
"Thank you for calling Pizza Place, how can I help you?"
"Are you open?"
No. No, I'm just here hanging out, thought I'd answer the telephone. Why else would someone be answering the phone?
Next year, ask Santa for some common sense.
At Pizza Place, we were closed yesterday for Thanksgiving. We're generally closed on those big holidays -- Fourth of July, Thanksgiving, Christmas. But a few years ago, Big Boss decided to stay open for Christmas.
We were just about the only business open that day, so we did some brisk business. But the pleasant amount of money I made wasn't quite worth the annoying phone calls I had to answer all day.
Every phone call -- every pickup order, every delivery order, every last bloody phone call -- began as follows:
"Thank you for calling Pizza Place, how can I help you?"
"Are you open?"
No. No, I'm just here hanging out, thought I'd answer the telephone. Why else would someone be answering the phone?
Next year, ask Santa for some common sense.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
I realize there's a perfectly valid explanation for this one, but it's funnier if the guy is just an idiot
Last night at Pizza Place, the phone rings.
"Thank you for calling Pizza Place, can I help you?"
"Yeah, what's your phone number?"
"....?"
"Thank you for calling Pizza Place, can I help you?"
"Yeah, what's your phone number?"
"....?"
Monday, November 19, 2007
Clerks: a documentary
We're selling commemorative Coca-Cola glasses this Christmas, as part of that time-honored tradition of Coke slapping its logo on anything that will hold still long enough to get stamped.
The day we put up the display, a guy came in and inquired about the glasses. He thrust a bony finger at the sign and said, "How much are they?"
The day we put up the display, a guy came in and inquired about the glasses. He thrust a bony finger at the sign and said, "How much are they?"
Friday, November 16, 2007
Wait, word problems? What is this, the SAT?
When dealing with the customers, you attempt to be polite and civil. No matter how stupid they become -- and as you've seen, and will see in the future, they can get pretty stupid -- you must remain nice and smiling. After all, the customers are your real boss; they pay your wage, if only indirectly.
But here's a sad fact: there are some questions that are impossible to answer without sounding like a smartass.
"I saw an ad in the newspaper, for your Bacon Cheddar Ham pizza?"
"Yes, sir."
"What comes on that?"
"On the Bacon Cheddar Ham?"
"Yeah."
"...Bacon...cheddar...and...ham?"
A woman called and asked about our buffet last night. The call came in at 7:41 p.m.
"What times does your buffet end?"
"8:00."
"Oh. So -- hmm. Can we still make it there?"
"...I'm sorry?"
"Well -- okay, listen. We live two minutes away. Can we make it there on time?"
"Um...if you're two minutes away... and you've got nineteen minutes..." I trailed off, because I couldn't think of a way to finish the sentence without sounding like a smartass. Unfortunately, she couldn't come with me on the leap of logic.
"Yeah, I guess we can't. Okay, thank you!" *hangs up*
"...?!"
And then there's this special guy, also from last night.
"I want to get your meat lover's pizza, but I only want beef."
"Only beef?"
"Yeah, I'm allergic to pork."
"So, no pepperoni, no sausage, no Italian sausage, no Canadian bacon, and no bacon."
"Right. A meat lover's with just beef. What do you call that?"
"...A pizza with beef."
But here's a sad fact: there are some questions that are impossible to answer without sounding like a smartass.
"I saw an ad in the newspaper, for your Bacon Cheddar Ham pizza?"
"Yes, sir."
"What comes on that?"
"On the Bacon Cheddar Ham?"
"Yeah."
"...Bacon...cheddar...and...ham?"
A woman called and asked about our buffet last night. The call came in at 7:41 p.m.
"What times does your buffet end?"
"8:00."
"Oh. So -- hmm. Can we still make it there?"
"...I'm sorry?"
"Well -- okay, listen. We live two minutes away. Can we make it there on time?"
"Um...if you're two minutes away... and you've got nineteen minutes..." I trailed off, because I couldn't think of a way to finish the sentence without sounding like a smartass. Unfortunately, she couldn't come with me on the leap of logic.
"Yeah, I guess we can't. Okay, thank you!" *hangs up*
"...?!"
And then there's this special guy, also from last night.
"I want to get your meat lover's pizza, but I only want beef."
"Only beef?"
"Yeah, I'm allergic to pork."
"So, no pepperoni, no sausage, no Italian sausage, no Canadian bacon, and no bacon."
"Right. A meat lover's with just beef. What do you call that?"
"...A pizza with beef."
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
WTF?
"Okay...your total is going to be $20.46. Are you going to be paying with cash or credit?"
"Credit."
"Okay. Can I get the credit card number, please?"
"Uh, sure. Do you need all the numbers? Or just some of them?"
"..."
"Credit."
"Okay. Can I get the credit card number, please?"
"Uh, sure. Do you need all the numbers? Or just some of them?"
"..."
Monday, November 12, 2007
Leave it out for a few days, and you can shingle your roof with it
There's something strangely compelling in someone who isn't quite paying attention to what they're saying. When people are confused, or flustered, or just really stupid, some bizarre questions and statements will emerge. Like this:
"Thank you for calling Pizza Place, how can I help you?"
"Do you guys have cheesesticks? Or cheesebread?"
"We have cheesebread."
"Is it -- hmm. Is it like the, the thin one? That you can eat?"
No, we don't have that cheesebread you can eat. Roof-shingling cheesebread, sure. But edible cheesebread? 'Fraid not.
"Thank you for calling Pizza Place, how can I help you?"
"Do you guys have cheesesticks? Or cheesebread?"
"We have cheesebread."
"Is it -- hmm. Is it like the, the thin one? That you can eat?"
No, we don't have that cheesebread you can eat. Roof-shingling cheesebread, sure. But edible cheesebread? 'Fraid not.
Friday, November 9, 2007
We don't go for that "The customer is always right" crap, either
Our standard delivery time at Pizza Place is 30 to 45 minutes. That's what we tell our customers just about every time. Sometimes, we know it won't take that long, but that's what we're required to say: 30-45 minutes. If we're busy or short-handed, the time might increase: 45 minutes, 50 minutes, an hour. The longest I've ever heard was "an hour and a half, two hours," and that's when we were slammed and short-handed.
The point is that we generally deliver our pizzas pretty quickly, unlike Pizza Conglomerate, which routinely takes an hour or two to get you your order. But they're famous, so they can get away with it.
Our customers are generally pretty pleased with our delivery times. But every once in a while...
It was a Saturday night. Now, you'd think Saturdays would be insanely busy at Pizza Place, but you'd be half-right: on some Saturdays, we've got orders coming out our ears, and on others, we're completely dead. There is no middle ground. But this particular Saturday, we were quite busy, so our estimated delivery time expanded. First, to "40-45 minutes," then to "50-55 minutes."
I found myself on the phone with a young gentleman -- 15, 16 years old -- employed at the go-cart track a block away from us. Now, he's not far away, but there were many orders ahead of him, and we have to deliver them in the order they're received. So I had to tell him, "It's going to be about an hour for delivery, is that okay?"
There was a confused pause. "Um," he began, "don't you have to deliver it in 30 minutes or less? Or it's free?"
Ah, yes. The 30-minutes-or-less policy. It was introduced by Domino's Pizza in, uh, the '80s (I don't feel like looking it up) and abolished because their drivers were having accidents and killing people to get the houses on time. It goes without saying that we don't do that.
"That's not our policy, sir."
There was another confused pause, and then a slight sigh: the tiny spitting of air one makes when one is baffled. And then, solemnly, dead serious: "But isn't that, like, the law?"
The law. The law.
Yes, kid. It's the law. Police officers tail me every time I go out with a map and a stopwatch. I'm looking at fifteen to twenty if I'm late one more time.
What the fuck?
I told the kid that there was not, in fact, legislation regulating pizza delivery times. I managed to stop short of recommending he write his congressman.
The point is that we generally deliver our pizzas pretty quickly, unlike Pizza Conglomerate, which routinely takes an hour or two to get you your order. But they're famous, so they can get away with it.
Our customers are generally pretty pleased with our delivery times. But every once in a while...
It was a Saturday night. Now, you'd think Saturdays would be insanely busy at Pizza Place, but you'd be half-right: on some Saturdays, we've got orders coming out our ears, and on others, we're completely dead. There is no middle ground. But this particular Saturday, we were quite busy, so our estimated delivery time expanded. First, to "40-45 minutes," then to "50-55 minutes."
I found myself on the phone with a young gentleman -- 15, 16 years old -- employed at the go-cart track a block away from us. Now, he's not far away, but there were many orders ahead of him, and we have to deliver them in the order they're received. So I had to tell him, "It's going to be about an hour for delivery, is that okay?"
There was a confused pause. "Um," he began, "don't you have to deliver it in 30 minutes or less? Or it's free?"
Ah, yes. The 30-minutes-or-less policy. It was introduced by Domino's Pizza in, uh, the '80s (I don't feel like looking it up) and abolished because their drivers were having accidents and killing people to get the houses on time. It goes without saying that we don't do that.
"That's not our policy, sir."
There was another confused pause, and then a slight sigh: the tiny spitting of air one makes when one is baffled. And then, solemnly, dead serious: "But isn't that, like, the law?"
The law. The law.
Yes, kid. It's the law. Police officers tail me every time I go out with a map and a stopwatch. I'm looking at fifteen to twenty if I'm late one more time.
What the fuck?
I told the kid that there was not, in fact, legislation regulating pizza delivery times. I managed to stop short of recommending he write his congressman.
Thursday, November 8, 2007
Worst soda ever
It's not always easy to understand someone when you're talking to them on the phone. It's easy to become distracted, and words can sometimes be difficult to discern -- you'd be surprised how hard it is sometimes to tell the difference between "thin crust" and "thick crust" over the phone. And don't get me started on Avenues B, C, D, and G.
But the most common problem with telephone orders is that people simply don't listen to you when you ask them a question. Instead, they'll supply whatever response they like.
"What's your phone number?"
"2144 Ash Court."
"..."
We're often confused with the far more successful and famous Pizza Conglomerate, which has a location across the street from us. Even though we answer every phone call we receive with "Thank you for calling Pizza Place, can I help you?" customers generally don't realize we're not Pizza Conglomerate until well into the call, if ever.
But sometimes, you get some pretty interesting answers when the person you're talking to isn't listening. Like this exchange: a customer was using a coupon that got her two pizzas and a 2-liter beverage.
"What kind of 2-liter did you want?"
"Garlic sausage."
...What?
What question did she think she was answering? And am I the only one who thinks that Pepsi wouldn't be above a Garlic Sausage Mountain Dew? Maybe.
But the most common problem with telephone orders is that people simply don't listen to you when you ask them a question. Instead, they'll supply whatever response they like.
"What's your phone number?"
"2144 Ash Court."
"..."
We're often confused with the far more successful and famous Pizza Conglomerate, which has a location across the street from us. Even though we answer every phone call we receive with "Thank you for calling Pizza Place, can I help you?" customers generally don't realize we're not Pizza Conglomerate until well into the call, if ever.
But sometimes, you get some pretty interesting answers when the person you're talking to isn't listening. Like this exchange: a customer was using a coupon that got her two pizzas and a 2-liter beverage.
"What kind of 2-liter did you want?"
"Garlic sausage."
...What?
What question did she think she was answering? And am I the only one who thinks that Pepsi wouldn't be above a Garlic Sausage Mountain Dew? Maybe.
Monday, November 5, 2007
Just leave it there, we'll get it in a few weeks
A man calls us and places a large order, which he wants delivered. He gives an address in one of the developing neighborhoods on the edges of town. When the order is ready, I jump in my car and head out.
When I arrive at his address, I find that no one is home. Because the house isn't finished yet. The driveway is a hole in the ground, the place has no walls, and I can see the street behind it through the house's empty frame.
I double-check to make sure I'm at the right address, which I am. I look around: none of the other houses on this block are finished, either. Hmm.
I return to the Pizza Place, and my manager gives the guy a call.
"Oh!" he says. "That's the house we're moving to in a few weeks."
My manager: "You gave us the address of a house you don't even live in yet?"
"Yeah," he says, chuckling. "Guess I'm an idiot."
You don't say.
When I arrive at his address, I find that no one is home. Because the house isn't finished yet. The driveway is a hole in the ground, the place has no walls, and I can see the street behind it through the house's empty frame.
I double-check to make sure I'm at the right address, which I am. I look around: none of the other houses on this block are finished, either. Hmm.
I return to the Pizza Place, and my manager gives the guy a call.
"Oh!" he says. "That's the house we're moving to in a few weeks."
My manager: "You gave us the address of a house you don't even live in yet?"
"Yeah," he says, chuckling. "Guess I'm an idiot."
You don't say.
Welcome
There's no delicate way to put this, so I'll just make it short and simple right up front: people are idiots.
I've been working in one customer service job after another over the past eight years, and have encountered some of the very dumbest, most insane people ever conceived on this planet. While commiserating with a friend about the torrent of pain I've endured, he suggested that I write every single one of my stories down. Since I'm blessed with free space on Blogger and a unjustified belief that everyone wants to hear what I have to say, I've taken his advice.
So here, I'll let you in on my world of agony, three times a week. Some of the stories will be quick; some will be long; all of them will make you glad you don't have my job.
Most of the stories will be about my longest-held job, delivering pizza for an unnamed chain (we'll just call them Pizza Place). But I can always dip back to my original job -- rental agent for a car rental company -- if I feel like it: no shortage of stupidity there, either.
This blog will go on as long as it can -- you know, until I run out of stories. Which will happen once people stop being stupid. I'm not holding my breath.
Feel free to leave comments or e-mail me stories of your own.
I've been working in one customer service job after another over the past eight years, and have encountered some of the very dumbest, most insane people ever conceived on this planet. While commiserating with a friend about the torrent of pain I've endured, he suggested that I write every single one of my stories down. Since I'm blessed with free space on Blogger and a unjustified belief that everyone wants to hear what I have to say, I've taken his advice.
So here, I'll let you in on my world of agony, three times a week. Some of the stories will be quick; some will be long; all of them will make you glad you don't have my job.
Most of the stories will be about my longest-held job, delivering pizza for an unnamed chain (we'll just call them Pizza Place). But I can always dip back to my original job -- rental agent for a car rental company -- if I feel like it: no shortage of stupidity there, either.
This blog will go on as long as it can -- you know, until I run out of stories. Which will happen once people stop being stupid. I'm not holding my breath.
Feel free to leave comments or e-mail me stories of your own.
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