Sometimes when I think about this story, I don’t trust my own memory. Surely I’m leaving something out – a crucial detail that will actually cause the whole thing to make sense. But then I remember how I felt that morning – that I’d never-in-my-whole-damn-life felt this confused, baffled and downright stupefied by another human being.
Until I went back to work in customer service / hospitality, of course. I get that feeling basically daily now.
I used to work in fast food. If you’re reading this, you know me and you know which particular fast food chain employed me, but I still hesitate to name names. Weirdly enough, I kind of enjoyed it, which might be how I ended up working in a restaurant again. That’s the Circle of Motherfucking LIFE, y’all.
Unfortunately, I can remember very few worthwhile stories. I guess I’ve either A) repressed those few summers or B) nothing all that noteworthy happened (my vote’s for B).
Except this one time.
10:00 am, we’ve just opened. A car pulls up.
I greet them via my headset:
Julie: Welcome to [name of restaurant] my name is Julie. Would you like to try an order of [some kind of fried shit whose name includes the word "poppers" and that we couldn't pay people to take off our hands] ?
Lady: I need to speak with a manager.
We didn’t get this request often. In person, at least. Sometimes people would call up to tell us the food they just took home was still frozen / raw / alive / bleeding in the middle. I scope the sitch a little further.
J: Of course, may I ask what this is regarding?
Lady: I was there last night…
J (thinking): Oh God, you have food poisoning, don’t you?
Irate Lady: …and something is wrong with my drink.
J: I’m sorry? Your drink? From… last night?
Irate, Crazy Lady: Yes!
J: What was the problem?
Irate, Batshit-Crazy Lady: The ice is melted!
J (after a long pause): The… ice? You… When you got your drink last night the ice was melted?
Irate, Batshit-Crazy Motherfucker: No, now. It’s all melted. My drink tastes terrible.
J: I… You… What?
Irate, Batshit-Crazy Motherfucker Who Is A Terrible, Terrible Con Artist : I want my money back.
J: For your drink… that you purchased here… last night…
Irate, Batshit-Crazy Motherfucker Who Is A Terrible, Terrible, Cra-Cra Con Artist: YES. I WANT A FREE DRINK.
I honestly can’t remember how the rest of the exchange went, though we did give her a coupon for a free drink that she might have redeemed immediately.
I’m pretty certain that we left out the ice second time around.