When out and about, I treat everyone with the utmost respect, especially if they happen to be drawing my blood, preparing my food or filling my prescriptions. I mean, I don't see any reason to be rude to people who are out doing their jobs--unless of course it takes them fifteen minutes to count back change, then that's just a free-for-all. Someone has to salt the french fries. Someone has to run the cash register. Someone has to deliver the newspaper or the mail. We depend upon these things and when they are not readily available to us, we fall apart.
I tell my dad to say "please" and when ordering food. When the person at the drive thru asks how you are, the standard reply is, "Fine, thanks, and yourself?" You may not really care about this person and how life has been treating them, but you have to pretend, if only for a split second. When the person at the drive thru window wishes you a good day, I've told him, "You need to say thank you, not just Yuh." But that is just how he rolls. "Yuh," I have come to discover, can mean many different things. It can mean please or thank you. It can mean yes. It is also the standard greeting when he answers the telephone.
I am always fairly shocked at the lack of respect shown to people who are in a service capacity, those people unfortunate enough to be providing a service in a given industry, whether it be food or retail or in my case, travel. When one provides a service, they are automatically seen as servant, it seems.
I've worked in this airport for just under a year and a half now. And in that time, I have learned that one, people have the tendency to be quite entitled and two, common sense has seemingly gone straight down the shitter. People do not read. People do not think. If the average human being employs only 10% of their brain, the average airline traveler employs somewhere in the vicinty of .o3%.
Where's the restroom? Why don't you try turning around? Baggage Claim? Take another two steps and you'll be standing in the middle of it. US Airways? Probably where the US Airways sign is, but I could always be wrong.
Countless times a day, I have to point people to my immediate left (US Airways) or to my immediate right (United) because people are wandering around looking all bewildered. People come to my counter trying to check in for their respective flights and they've got their ID, credit card and itenerary out before you have sufficient time to tell them that you are not an airline. Somehow, they know everything they will need to check in, but lack the common sense to open their eyes and READ.
I've dealt with rude people. I've had a passport thrown at me. I've been told that I was so rude, it was deserving a phone call to our congressman. I'm still waiting for the fallout of that, by the way. But for whatever reason, I am still shocked whenever I encounter rude people or stupid people. On Monday, I encountered some fucked up hybrid.
In my job, there is a lot of downtime. We all have devised ways of keeping ourselves occupied and I use my copious amounts of freetime to hone my craft--writing, obviously. On Monday, I was about 1,000 words in to a 2,000 word quota when a couple approached my counter. Of course, I didn't see them, being quite engrossed and they were also quite silent. They stood and stared, waiting. Now, had I been in the same situation, it might have gone done a little differently.
I would have said "Hello?" or maybe, "Excuse me?" Quick and simple and polite. You get the person's attention and you manage to not look like a complete asshole. You ask your question, get your answer and go on your merry way.
They stood. And stared. After a moment, I realized they were standing there, not because they said 'excuse me," but because the man whistled. He whistled. I got mad, but not your typical, run-of-the-mill mad, but a quiet, bristly sort of mad, because damn, did your mother teach you no fucking manners at all?
I stood and said nothing because if they weren't going to afford me basic common courtesy, I wasn't going to afford them basic common courtesy, either. Yes, I am fully aware I am a petty cunt. Instead they got my snootiest Yes, How May I Assist You face.
The man growled, "US Airways?"
I pointed at the counter with the large, US Airways sign. You know, the one with people standing at it wearing US Airways shirts? The one with other people lining up to check in? Yeah, that one.
"Oh," said the man.
"Yeah," I said. "You almost got it, though."
Moral of the story: Don't whistle at me to get my attention or you may be gumming your next meal, or at least you'll get my Snooty Face.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Sunday, March 22, 2009
It's Not All About the Tips, But Sometimes, You Know, It's Nice
My job is most definitely in the spectrum of customer service. We are Customer Service Representatives without the fancy title and the legitamateness. Given that we are most definitely not legit, I find it humourous that we are the only company in our little airport required to wear ties. We don't even get Casual fucking Friday.
Normally, I don't mind assisting people's mobility. That's what I get paid to do, although sometimes, sometimes, I wish it was okay to pick and choose who we assisted. Like, that 95 year-old woman shuffling by assisted only her walker and a whole lot of moxy? I want to chase her down and insist she sit her ancient butt in my wheelchair. That 30 year-old woman whose only real disability is an affinity for Snickers and chili dogs? Well...
But that's not my place. I don't get paid to pre-screen my passengers in need of assistance. But that doesn't mean I don't do it mentally. I do, and I do it often. Every wheelchair I push, I'm thinking, "Wow, you know, you probably could have managed." This is usually about the time they start asking about the sandwich shop or where they might obtain something containing peanuts and high fructose corn syrup.
Some passengers are mislead into thinking we are not paid employees of a company contracted by the Department of Airports, but poor street urchins, scraping by on what piddly gratuities we are given. I like tips. Of course I like tips, who doesn't? But we don't live solely off tips, so most of the time I am hesitant to take them. Usually, when a passenger is tipping, they were so not troublesome, so quick and easy, you want to tip them for not being a total asshole. Those sweet-as-peaches old people who make pleasant conversation and tell you all about their flight and their plans and their family like they are talking to a friend and not to the hired help. It may not be the most fascinating part of my day, but I walk away feeling warm and fuzzy nevertheless, and it is a nice feeling.
Feet. Oh my God, the feet. It still amazes me how many people aren't cognizant of their feet or just plain-ass don't care. If you don't take issue with your bare feet touching the carpet thousands of other bare feet have touched, then you are a far braver individual than I am. This coming from the girl who wears Old Navy flip flops nine months out of the year, but still. I'd be sure the one day I need to submit myself to airport security would be the one day I wore shoes AND socks.
But like I said, I don't necessarily mind. Unless, of course, you need help removing and/or putting on your shoes.
If you want me to come within a mile of your funky feet, please wear socks. If you are fiercely anti-sock, as I am and will continue to be (unless, of course, I have to travel) please invest in a spa pedicure.
I'm sorry, I don't mean to sound rude. What? Who am I kidding? Of course I mean to sound rude. But while my rudeness may be undeniable, still, I get it, I understand. These are old people, for the most part, semi-ambulatory people, people who haven't seen their feet since, perhaps, the Reagan Administration. But damn.
And it isn't just like, helping them slip their shoes on, either. My uber-dependent passengers, they don't ever just wear a nice pair of Birkenstocks, no.
Note: I don't condone the wearing of Birkenstocks, ever, at any time, under normal circumstances, but I can overlook their abject, circa-1995, Lilith Fair-brand ugliness if it will prevent me from having to touch strange feet.
No, they wear Clarks. They wear sandals with straps and buckles. They wear flats in a medium width when they are obviously a wide and so cramming their feet back into their shoes requires some manuvering and prayer and Crisco, and quite often, it requires me to use my fingers as a makeshift shoehorn while they sit primly in their wheelchair like they are damn Marie Antoinette.
I've learned, if you think you've gotten away with something, leave it to someone else to offer up your services. I think about the TSA agents in my particular airport and I am usually quite annoyed. I've had words with just about every single one of them at different times, for different reasons. To hell with being the bigger person. If someone wants to trade dirty looks, I am up for it and I've got contemptuous faces for days because I've had a lot of practice.
I was paged to assist one lady who was probably in her fifties, but could probably had managed to walk unassisted had it not been for a heavy lunch. She was plump, yes, but undeniably able, as I had seen the very same woman trek from the entrance to the gift shop, to the restroom and back.
But like I've said, it isn't my place to judge.
Having made it through the security song and dance: shoes and jackets off, metal items in the bowls, liquids in quart-sized bags in the bin, I had just settled my passenger back into her wheelchair and I was gathering her belongings from the x-ray machine when N opened her mouth.
"Did you need some help with your shoes, ma'am? She'd be glad to help you."
N and I don't get along. I didn't really have a problem with her until she made it her goal in life to be nasty at every opportunity. Then, I got irritated.
I eyed her, all five feet of her. I stared her down for a hot second, a look that said, "You filthy little hag. You short, squat little troll. It must be easy to volunteer my services when you're the one with rubber gloves and Purell at your fucking disposal." I was not pleased.
Now, I caught a glimpse of those feet as the shoes were coming off. I had made a decision I was not about to touch those feet. They resembled gondolas, wide and swollen, the nails thick and misshapen, the skin dry and flaking. And while I wanted to recommend my very favorite foot scrub to her, I was suddenly drawn to her toenails.
They were pedicured. Painted especially, she told me a moment later as I was kneeling, trying to wrangle her gondolas back inside of her shoes, for her two year-old grandson's birthday party.
"Oh," I said. "Well, I'm sure he got a kick out of that..."
I was trying to make sense of it all. She'd made some poor soul paint those crazy ass toenails of hers, but had never thought to slap on some foot scrub? Had her pedicurist not even mentioned that maybe she ought to let her slough off about twelve layers of dead skin? For the good of people who might have to come in contact with her feet?
Long story short, she tipped. But all the frantic scrubbing and santizing in the world will ever take away the memory of those feet. And from now on, I'm going to be extremely generous with my pedicurist, for whom I have a new-found respect.
Normally, I don't mind assisting people's mobility. That's what I get paid to do, although sometimes, sometimes, I wish it was okay to pick and choose who we assisted. Like, that 95 year-old woman shuffling by assisted only her walker and a whole lot of moxy? I want to chase her down and insist she sit her ancient butt in my wheelchair. That 30 year-old woman whose only real disability is an affinity for Snickers and chili dogs? Well...
But that's not my place. I don't get paid to pre-screen my passengers in need of assistance. But that doesn't mean I don't do it mentally. I do, and I do it often. Every wheelchair I push, I'm thinking, "Wow, you know, you probably could have managed." This is usually about the time they start asking about the sandwich shop or where they might obtain something containing peanuts and high fructose corn syrup.
Some passengers are mislead into thinking we are not paid employees of a company contracted by the Department of Airports, but poor street urchins, scraping by on what piddly gratuities we are given. I like tips. Of course I like tips, who doesn't? But we don't live solely off tips, so most of the time I am hesitant to take them. Usually, when a passenger is tipping, they were so not troublesome, so quick and easy, you want to tip them for not being a total asshole. Those sweet-as-peaches old people who make pleasant conversation and tell you all about their flight and their plans and their family like they are talking to a friend and not to the hired help. It may not be the most fascinating part of my day, but I walk away feeling warm and fuzzy nevertheless, and it is a nice feeling.
Feet. Oh my God, the feet. It still amazes me how many people aren't cognizant of their feet or just plain-ass don't care. If you don't take issue with your bare feet touching the carpet thousands of other bare feet have touched, then you are a far braver individual than I am. This coming from the girl who wears Old Navy flip flops nine months out of the year, but still. I'd be sure the one day I need to submit myself to airport security would be the one day I wore shoes AND socks.
But like I said, I don't necessarily mind. Unless, of course, you need help removing and/or putting on your shoes.
If you want me to come within a mile of your funky feet, please wear socks. If you are fiercely anti-sock, as I am and will continue to be (unless, of course, I have to travel) please invest in a spa pedicure.
I'm sorry, I don't mean to sound rude. What? Who am I kidding? Of course I mean to sound rude. But while my rudeness may be undeniable, still, I get it, I understand. These are old people, for the most part, semi-ambulatory people, people who haven't seen their feet since, perhaps, the Reagan Administration. But damn.
And it isn't just like, helping them slip their shoes on, either. My uber-dependent passengers, they don't ever just wear a nice pair of Birkenstocks, no.
Note: I don't condone the wearing of Birkenstocks, ever, at any time, under normal circumstances, but I can overlook their abject, circa-1995, Lilith Fair-brand ugliness if it will prevent me from having to touch strange feet.
No, they wear Clarks. They wear sandals with straps and buckles. They wear flats in a medium width when they are obviously a wide and so cramming their feet back into their shoes requires some manuvering and prayer and Crisco, and quite often, it requires me to use my fingers as a makeshift shoehorn while they sit primly in their wheelchair like they are damn Marie Antoinette.
I've learned, if you think you've gotten away with something, leave it to someone else to offer up your services. I think about the TSA agents in my particular airport and I am usually quite annoyed. I've had words with just about every single one of them at different times, for different reasons. To hell with being the bigger person. If someone wants to trade dirty looks, I am up for it and I've got contemptuous faces for days because I've had a lot of practice.
I was paged to assist one lady who was probably in her fifties, but could probably had managed to walk unassisted had it not been for a heavy lunch. She was plump, yes, but undeniably able, as I had seen the very same woman trek from the entrance to the gift shop, to the restroom and back.
But like I've said, it isn't my place to judge.
Having made it through the security song and dance: shoes and jackets off, metal items in the bowls, liquids in quart-sized bags in the bin, I had just settled my passenger back into her wheelchair and I was gathering her belongings from the x-ray machine when N opened her mouth.
"Did you need some help with your shoes, ma'am? She'd be glad to help you."
N and I don't get along. I didn't really have a problem with her until she made it her goal in life to be nasty at every opportunity. Then, I got irritated.
I eyed her, all five feet of her. I stared her down for a hot second, a look that said, "You filthy little hag. You short, squat little troll. It must be easy to volunteer my services when you're the one with rubber gloves and Purell at your fucking disposal." I was not pleased.
Now, I caught a glimpse of those feet as the shoes were coming off. I had made a decision I was not about to touch those feet. They resembled gondolas, wide and swollen, the nails thick and misshapen, the skin dry and flaking. And while I wanted to recommend my very favorite foot scrub to her, I was suddenly drawn to her toenails.
They were pedicured. Painted especially, she told me a moment later as I was kneeling, trying to wrangle her gondolas back inside of her shoes, for her two year-old grandson's birthday party.
"Oh," I said. "Well, I'm sure he got a kick out of that..."
I was trying to make sense of it all. She'd made some poor soul paint those crazy ass toenails of hers, but had never thought to slap on some foot scrub? Had her pedicurist not even mentioned that maybe she ought to let her slough off about twelve layers of dead skin? For the good of people who might have to come in contact with her feet?
Long story short, she tipped. But all the frantic scrubbing and santizing in the world will ever take away the memory of those feet. And from now on, I'm going to be extremely generous with my pedicurist, for whom I have a new-found respect.
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