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 workers, 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.