Supermarket Stories: Soap Thief Smackdown
Tonight, I had my most memorable experience ever during my 12 years working at the supermarket. Watch the video below to learn more:
There’s an old man that comes into the supermarket on a regular basis, and his most distinguishing feature has been his awful-looking toupee. That is until today, when he came through my line wearing uncomfortably tight, hot pink jeans. It was disturbing. Unfortunately, Hair Piece Harry’s personality is just as bad as his “taste” in fashion. He has a grumpy demeanor and barely speaks. When he does utter a word, it’s usually nonsensical and barely audible. You’ve been warned: If you see an older man walking down the streets of Philadelphia with a toupee that would offend Donald Trump and jeans that are definitely not pretty in pink, head the other way.
As I write this, I’m enjoying a bowl of Fruit Loops. And as I stare into my bowl of colorful, crunchy goodness, I can’t help but think of the time I had a run-in with a crackhead over a box of Trix cereal.
It was 8 p.m. on a Saturday, and I was working behind the register at the food store. I was grateful that my shift had been uneventful up until that point. Then a ragged looking woman clutching a box of Trix got into my line. After I quickly ascertained that the customer was high as a kite, she whipped out a check book and started filling it out.
Unless a customer is old, old fashioned or has recently been robbed of his or her wallet, there is no reason to pay for groceries with a check. Not only is this payment method anachronistic, but it’s not advantageous to the customer; he or she must provide the cashier with a phone number and a state-issued photo ID, not to mention waste time filling out the check. And at my store, you can only get $25 cash back using a check. With a debit card, you can get $50.
Needless to say, Ms. Rocky Mountain High was adding $25 to her check, for drug money, no doubt. Knowing this transaction wouldn’t end well, I asked her for her Pennsylvania ID. After illegibly scrawling out the necessary information on her check, she handed it to me with an out-of-state ID. I proceeded to tell her we couldn’t accept the check for several reasons (i.e., the check number was too low, her ID wasn’t from PA and the address on the check didn’t match the ID), and she asked to speak with the Manager. He came over, told her the same thing and she argued with him saying, “Why can’t you just put it through?”
I voided the order, and moved onto the next customer. Over my shoulder, I noticed that she Ms. Trix was still arguing with the Manager at Customer Service. He repeatedly told her why the store couldn’t accept the check and asked her to leave. She argued with him for such a long period of time that he had to punch out and go home because his shift was over.
After he left, she tried to get back into my line. I told her, “I’m not ringing you up.” So, she went to the cashier directly across from me, and I said, “Don’t you dare ring her up.” Then she returned to my line and said, “Can I talk to the Manager?”
“You did, for 30 minutes, and he told you we can’t accept your check. More importantly, he’s not here. He went home.”
“There must be somebody I can talk to … somebody!” she said, raising her voice.
“There is,” I replied. “The police.”
“The police? Why? Will they make you accept my check?”
“No, they’ll remove you from the store,” I said. Pointing out the obvious to anyone not on drugs.
I pulled out my cell phone and called the police station down the street. I told them I had a customer that refused to leave, and that I believed she was dangerous – anything to speed up their arrival and her removal.
Within five minutes, four police officers walked in the front door and told the woman she had to leave. She flipped out and slammed the pen she wrote her bad check with on the counter and yelled, “This is bullshit!” The cops escorted her out of the store, and I was a little nervous that she might be waiting for me when I left. Thankfully, that wasn’t the case.
The bottom line is this: Avoid crackheads with a penchant for children’s cereal, and please pay for groceries with a credit/debit card or cash.
I just got in from a late night at the supermarket, so I thought now would be the perfect time to share another supermarket story.
Nearly five years ago, I set off to work and moved at a feverish pace so as not to be late. With the balmy breeze mussing my hair, I was in a delightful mood. My shift started off as usual and things were going well. Being a cashier, I have plenty of time to talk to customers, and this day was no different. I’d rung up a slew of my favorite customers as well as some that were new to the neighborhood. But one customer in particular caused a scene over sales tax.
My favorite line is express because it allows me to get people in and out at a quick pace, without having to spend an enormous amount of time bagging. When I saw that my next customer, an elderly man sporting a bucket hat, only had a six-pack of Pepsi, I was pleased. Such a small order would take no time at all. Boy was I wrong.
As the old man’s long, gaunt face peered up at me, he yelled, “That’s supposed to be $1.99!”
I replied, “Sir, the Pepsi is on sale, with a discount card. Do you have one?”
After failing to answer my question and staring at me suspiciously for several seconds, I said, “Here, I’ll use mine. The total is $2.12.”
“It’s supposed to be $1.99,” he barked, as spittle sprayed from his three-toothed mouth.
“Sir, there’s sales tax, which is why it’s $2.12.”
“F*%k sales tax! I’ll take you outside and kick you in the balls!”
At this point, other customers were staring at him and telling “Bucket Hat” he was being rude. Realizing I was in a no-win situation, I called the manager over to complete the order so I could walk away and calm down.
Following the incident, I came to two conclusions: First, this guy was passionate about Pepsi – although, considering his lack of teeth, he probably should have been buying Diet Pepsi. Second, his resistance to paying sales tax, more than likely, wasn’t linked to an unhealthy obsession with Henry David Thoreau. Instead, I realized, the cheese slipped of this guy’s cracker a long time ago, and there wasn’t anything I could do to help him find it.