The most annoying customer in the world

(This is my fiftieth post here. Which means I've kept it up about twenty posts longer than I thought I would. Huzzah to me.)

I don't know how it happens, but it happens nevertheless. It happens every time.

The most annoying customer in the world calls every couple of weeks or so. It's not so often that we've memorized his information on the caller ID, but often enough so that we recognize him as soon as he gives his first name.

And somehow, I always end up answering the phone when he calls. Always.

His name is Omar, and he's about fourteen years old. Omar is always the one to call, rather than his parents, because they don't speak English. Which is fine -- except Omar is a goddamn moron.

Omar cannot remember his own address. Omar never knows what anyone wants. Omar doesn't understand the difference between thick and thin crust. Omar has called roughly forty times in the last two years, and he is still baffled by the process every time. And Omar has a bad habit of mumbling and speaking in unintelligible half-sentences, too, guaranteeing that every call will end with you popping a few Aleve and waiting for the swelling to go down.

He called tonight. I try my best to remain patient...but sometimes, I lose it. Like today.

When he gave his name, I inwardly groaned, but kept my air of Customer Service Expert. This lasted exactly one question.

"What's your phone number?"
"832-555-152380."
"..."

Here we go again. Again.

"Um, could you repeat that?"
"832-555-152380."
"Are you sure that's right?"
"Yes."
"Because that can't be right. That's too many digits."
"Um...It...um...I was....It...um...It's my mom's phone."
"Uh...huh...."
"That's her number."
"Um, no, it's not. That number has too many digits."
"But...I....But....But....But...."

Silence.

Sigh.

"So...I need your phone number. The correct phone number."
"Um...um....I....just a second."

I hear him speaking Spanish to someone -- sounds like his mom. And he comes back with the correct number.

"832-555-2380."
"Okay. What's your address?"
"832...555...2380."

Kill me now.

"No, what is your address?"
"My -- what? Oh. Oh. Um. Uh...um. Uh...."

And after several moments of that, I finally get an address. I take his order. It's mercifully uncomplicated, but I still have to wade through oceans of um's and uh's to get there. My patience wears thin. But then, it's over, and I'm done with this idiot.

Or so I thought.

After I give him his total and delivery time, I thank him and start to hang up, but he says, "Can I ask you a question?"

"Uh, sure," I say.

"You're new, aren't you?"

Long silence. Cold silence.

"Um, what?"
"Are you new?"
"Am I...am I new? Is that what you're asking me?"
"Yeah."
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"Um...uh...um...."

Grr.

"No, I'm not new. I'm the one who answers your call every time you order, Omar."
"Um...uh...oh. Oh."
"Was there anything else?"
"Uh...no."
"Okay then."

And I hung up.

I hate that damn kid.