I've been having a problem at my local supermarket lately.
They're trying. They're really, really trying to provide friendly customer service.
That's the problem.
I hate to sound like a curmudgeon, but sometimes I do not like
super-friendly customer service, in the same way that I sometimes do
not like over-excited poodles attempting to do super-friendly things to
my leg.
"How are you doing today?" they ask me. And I shouldn't be so cynical. Maybe they really do care
how I'm doing. Maybe they would listen sympathetically if I said,
"Well, not so good. Work is stressing me out, I stubbed my toe really hard yesterday, and my neighbor's cat hates me for reasons I just don't understand."
But I don't tell them that. I mumble that I'm fine and move on to the produce section.
In the produce section, another friendly employee spots me. "Hey!"
he says with a poodle'esque grin. "How are you doing today? Finding
everything okay?"
That second question -- Are you finding everything okay? -- puts me on my guard.
Sometimes when I go grocery shopping, I go with only a vague idea of
what I want to buy. I'm a rebel that way. I linger. I browse. I check
out the sales in the bread department. I run my fingers through the
lettuce to test for crispness. You know. Normal "guy stuff."
In other stores -- electronics stores, clothing stores -- I would
answer, "I'm just browsing, thanks." But you can't say that in a
grocery store, can you?
The questions wouldn't be so bad if they happened maybe once per
visit, but they don't. Every time I go to my local supermarket, I am
forced to run the gauntlet of at least 23 employees, and every single
one of them attempts to ask how I'm doing. They want to ask me so
badly, they barrel through the store at breakneck speed, wagging their
tails, panting for breath with their tongues hanging out of their
mouths, just to ask me, "How are you doing today?"
By employee 19 or so, my friendly "oh, fine, thanks" has morphed
into a hostile grumble. Do all 19 of those people care so much about me
that they must sprint through several aisles, knocking over potato chip
stands, just to ask how I am doing? Because seriously, if they do care that much, that's downright neurotic.
But I don't think that's the case. I suspect most of these employees
are happy, well-adjusted people who don't care how I'm doing -- at
least not that much -- who have been taken captive by their
managers and told that if they don't ask at least 53 customers per hour
how we are doing, they will be strung up by their toes in the back room
and force-fed expired food.
Last week in the meat department, I was perusing the steaks when
grinning employee number six literally threw herself between me and the
meat counter to ask how I was doing.
"Fine," I said.
The butcher looked up in horror from across the counter. He had been neglecting me.
"How are you doing?" he asked.
"Fine," I said. "Kind of like how I was doing four seconds ago when you overheard that other nice lady ask me how I was doing."
He looked worried. I had stood in front of his meat counter for 23
whole seconds before he had acknowledged my presence. This called for
dire concessions. He needed to make more small talk.
"Looks like you got some sun today," he said.
"Damn it! I am trying to choose a steak and you people keep
interrupting my thought process! Will you please leave me to shop in
peace!"
I wanted to say that, but I couldn't get the words out. Instead, I
just said. "Nope," and tried to resume my shopping. The butcher
persisted.
"Yep!" he argued. "You got some sun! Your face is looking a little pink!"
My face looks a little pink sometimes. It's not the sun. It's a skin
condition called rosacea. Thanks for pointing out the flare-up.
I would have gone to the pharmacy at that point to get something for
it, but I was afraid to talk to anybody else. I decided it was time to
leave.
[Tomorrow: Part 2: Challenges in the Check-Out Line]
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