Walgreen's Rules

I should have known better.

They have to call for a supervisor to come to the photo desk and as I watch her shuffle her sullen and obese self toward me, I remind myself not to judge a book by its cover. She doesn’t speak, doesn’t smile, doesn’t show any interest. I take a deep breath.

“Hi!” I say brightly, determined to give her the benefit of the doubt, “I need a print made from a negative.”

“Have to send it out.” she says flatly.

“Ok.” I say and try to smile.

“Might take 3-4 weeks,” she adds with a hostile glare.

“Ok.” I say and try harder.

“Maybe longer,” she says defiantly.

I don’t have to have a house fall on me. I slowly take back the negative and put it away, pick up my keys and sling my purse over my shoulder.

“Tell you what,” I say loudly, “Next time you can’t be bothered to help a customer, try saying so upfront. It’ll save you both time and trouble. Go back to your stall and strap on your feedbag.”

The last was harsh and I shouldn’t have said it but I’m done with slovenly, shiftless, rude and indifferent customer service and the troglodytes who provide it without consequences. The girls who cashier for minimum wage at the front of the store are unfailingly polite and pleasant and helpful. They know me and what brand of cigarettes I smoke, which candy I buy and that I’m likely to forget my keys if I’m frazzled. The rules for management are far less civil. For the life of me, I can’t figure out why this is such a hard lesson to learn.