Sometimes I feel that, since I graduated and moved home, my life is far less interesting and exciting. Sometimes that is totally true. But other times, it is clear that the life I am in now, if not more interesting and exciting than the one I had before (or at least, not yet), it is at least spotted with momentarily interesting events. It helps that I work part time in my parent's bait shop. Not to be rude or anything, but...we do get some interesting and very colorful characters.
I have two stories to share.
The other day, a very heavy set, scantily clad woman walked (I say walked, what I mean is more like lumbered) into the store, set herself precariously on the edge of the counter, and demanded that someone write her a fishing license.
"Okay," I said calmly. "I'll write it at the back counter, by the computer." (I pointed, too, so that she would know where to go.)
She picked herself up again and waddled back to the back, set herself on that counter and looked angrily and expectantly at me.
"We only accept cash for licenses," I tell her, in warning. "And can I see some ID?"
"I don't have no ID." She said it, simply, not caring. I braced myself for the storm that was surely to come. Her pursed lips and aggressive stance didn't suggest to me that this was going to be easy. But I knew the rules and certainly wasn't going to break them.
"Well," I started, slowly, a little afraid. "I need your ID in order to give you an in-state license. Since they cost less for people who are in-state, I need some sort of state-issued identification to issue it for you."
"The police told me I didn't need one," she said, angrily. "Why would they say that if it warn't true?"
"You don't need one to get a license," I replied. "I can get you an out-of-state license without an identification, but to get the benefit of a citizen, I need proof that you live in Virginia."
"Can't you just write it for me? I stay just down the street." She looked down her nose at me as if she was thinking that she likes to eat blonde things like me for breakfast.
"No, I'm sorry," I said again, a little exasperated now. "I can write you an out of state license, but that's all I can do without an ID."
At that time, my dad piped in to corroborate what I was saying. I love when he does that. On the other hand, I hate when he pipes up and tells me to do something that I don't want to do--give extra bait to a customer who has been rude to me, for example. (It is my policy that if you are rude, like if you call me "hey, you," or snap your fingers at me to tell me to do something, I will punish you. I will give you exactly what you order--and absolutely nothing else. I am in the habit of adding extra things in for people who are nice to me, and you may not know it, but you won't get the best if you are rude. And I remember.)
"Well," she said, huffing. "The warden has my ID."
At those words, I almost burst out laughing. Here she was, my own little jailbird.
"You should get it from him. Then I can write you an in-state license."
"Can't you just call the warden and ask him to tell you that I have a license?"
"Ummm...err...well, no, that's not really my job." I didn't know what to say, but I am not in the habit of calling wardens all over a silly fishing license. Besides, that's crazy. No thanks, you fugitive of justice, go get your license yourself--and if you CAN'T get it, perhaps you ought not be fishing and you should be locked up instead. Well, at these words, homegirl stormed away in a huff, presumably to find the warden and demand that he give her back her fishing license.
Today brought another incident, of course. It was the first truly pretty weekend we've had this summer, and everybody wanted to go fishing. I went to work at 6 in the morning and ran back and forth to get bait all day long. Literally. It's good, because I work on commission, but bad because I get blisters on my super tired feet.
One of the most popular baits we sell are peeler crabs. They are regular blue crabs that are in between being hard and being soft--and their shells peel off. They are kind of expensive, $2.25 for each crab, and they are highly coveted. We frequently run out of them, because we can only get a couple hundred at a time, and the demand is that high. A crabber brings them to us every day, and we only have what he brings--whether he has been lucky or not. Today, we got peelers in the morning--about 150 of them--and they were going fast.
I had a number of phone calls about peelers from customers and our general rule is that we won't hold them for anybody. With perishable things, it's dangerous--by the time they get their lazy butts down to the store, some of the crabs might have died, and then they don't want to pay as much for them. Besides, why turn away perfectly good customers who are physically standing there with money in their hands for customers who may not even come? Our thoughts exactly. It is counterproductive, and we don't save them.
Anyway, at one point, I had two customers walk in. Let's call them Bob and John. As they come in, I was finishing up with another customer. Bob walks past the front counter, where you order your bait, and over the hook aisle and starts to browse. John comes up to the counter and waits for me to be done with my customer. When I was finished, I asked him what I could get for him.
"Do you have any peelers?" he asked me.
"We have a few," I told him.
"How many is a few?" he asked. (This is a pretty routine conversation.)
Having not done inventory, I wasn't exactly sure, but I did a little guesstimate.
"Mmmm 20-25," I told him.
"I'll take them all," John said. I nodded, and turned to go to the back to pack up the crabs.
"Hey," Bob calls across the store. "Can I get five of them peelers?"
"They're sold," I told him, shrugging. "I'm sorry."
"Hey, man," he called at John. "Can I get like five of your peelers?"
"I'm sorry," John said, "I need them."
Bob stopped harassing my customer, and I walked to the back to get the crabs. I put them in an old bloodworm box and counted them out--we had 24 and a dead one. Right on the money. Feeling pretty proud of myself, I put them all together and carried them back out to John.
"We had 24," I told him. "I was pretty darn close!"
"Let me get four of them," Bob started up again.
"I'm sorry," I replied. "These are sold."
"He only said he'd take 20!" Bob said indignantly.
"I told him I had 20-25 and he said he would take them all," I responded, patiently.
"Hey, man, can I get four of those crabs?" he started again on John.
"I'm sorry," John said again. "I've got to make a living."
Since John wasn't willing to give up his crabs, I really couldn't do anything. He did ask me for them first and I certainly wasn't going to reach into his bag and take out something that he told me first that he wanted.
"But I was here first," Bob said. "You were helping someone else, and I walked over here, and when he said he wanted them I told you I wanted five."
"He asked me first," I said, getting a little frustrated now. I didn't know how he could think that I would be free to do anything different than what I was doing. "I'm really sorry. We should get some more later this afternoon."
"You're really not going to give me any crabs?" Bob said, his eyes bugging in his little head.
I shook my head. He took his pack of hooks that he had obviously been intending to buy and threw them at my face. Being wrapped up, they flew kinda funny--not in a direct line at my face, but kinda flew for a ways, then fluttered slowly and ineffectually to the ground. I was pretty stunned to have something thrown at me over a situation that I obviously couldn't do anything about.
Ahh, the joys of working in retail. Sometimes it makes me cranky that I'm still working here, even after I finished my law degree, but I have to remind myself I am lucky to have this connection that lets me work the hours that suit me. Nobody else would hire me otherwise and I would have to ride my bike or something because I certainly couldn't afford gas at these prices. And I have to get to and from Williamsburg five days a week starting on Tuesday for my bar review class so...
Let's just say I am easily the most over qualified bait girl in the history of the world.
No comments:
Post a Comment