I've mentioned that I'm a lousy employee. Working for The Man generally
involves regular schedules and pantyhose or a polyester uniform. I know the
Japanese have entire fetish books dedicated to food service uniforms, but they
made me itch. Poly-blend pants don't flatter, if you know what I mean. Over the
years, there have been many memorable moments in my illustrious quest for a
paycheck. Flirting with the cute boys from Foot Locker with a glob of chocolate
chip on the side of my nose while slinging cookies for Mrs Fields. Selling a
costume to the man of my teenage dreams while dressed like Bozo the Clown at a
Halloween kiosk. The boss who honestly thought my name was Cindy, and made a
point of using it every time he passed my desk. "Well, hell-low Cindy." Yeah,
hello, jackass. I have a sign ON MY DESK that has real name on it. I've held
some of the stupidest jobs ever. Cooking hot dogs on a used car lot for
customers during a big sale? Check. Worked as a greeter at the same lot... yeah,
that's right. I was so cool. "Hello, folks, I'm a nice young lady, and I'm not
trying to sell you anything, but if you'll kindly tell me what y'all are here
for, I will fetch a salesperson down here to harass you." I was a telemarketer
for a month. We were supposed to be selling tickets for some sort of fundraiser,
and we were calling from the white pages in the phone book. Guess who got the
page with 100 'Dick' listings? God, I almost wet myself trying to keep it cool.
"Good evening, Mr. Dick. Uh, hello, is this the Dick residence?" Hands down, the
worst incident had to be during my stint as a bank teller. I'm barely five feet
tall, and I sat on a high stool at my teller window. It was lunch hour during
the holidays, and customers were getting really cranky. We had a policy that if
you waited in line for more than five minutes, the bank would give you five
bucks. I had just run out of fives when this disgusting man steps to the
counter. He was dirty and stinky and pulled a few wadded up bills out of a
pocket. He held a filthy finger up at me and proceeded to pull the collar of his
tshirt up to his nose and emptied both sinus cavities. I'm sitting there
horrified as he allows his shirt to drop back against his skin. I choke back my
revulsion and say "Deposit?" in a perky voice. He grunts "I been in line like
twenty minutes. I want my fiver." "Why certainly, sir," I chirp and lean down to
my bottom cupboard to look for another banded stack of five dollar bills. As I
straightened up, I misjudged the edge of my counter. I whacked the back of my
head with a resounding boom that apparently echoed throughout the branch. I
didn't get the full effect, since I plummeted from the stool like I was dead. I
was out cold, laying splayed on the floor. When I came around, I realized that I
had just knocked myself cold and no one noticed a thing. I sat up, looked around
at my fellow bank slaves, and they were so busy being grossed out by my customer
(he was now digging for gold and making hairball noises) that they didn't see my
spectacular idiocy. Even my customer seemed unconcerned. Turns out he was just
there for the five bucks, he didn't even have an account with us. I gave it to
him anyway, then bummed a couple of tylenol and headed out to buy a new pair of
pantyhose, because yes, I managed to snag mine on the cabinet on my way down. I
pretty much decided I didn't want to be in banking after that. It just didn't
feel right.