GUEST COLUMN: "Customer relations, with a twist

After a miserable summer as a stock boy, Dabid Bober says he's found an ideal career: collecting tolls on the turnpike. The worst part of any job, I say any at all, is dealing with people. I hate people. This is why I want to be a toll collector. It's my dream job. First of all, your duties as a toll collector are clearly defined: you collect tolls. There are no hidden duties, like scrubbing toilets. Second, any and all interaction with people is kept to a minimum. They give you money, you give them change, and they go on their merry way, whistling along the highway of life like the fools that they are. Unfortunately, I did not have the good luck to be a toll collector this summer. Rather, I spent the summer toiling as a stock boy for pennies an hour like the worthless peon that I am, all the while having to perform the unspeakable task of dealing with customers. I thought I had seen enough freaks to last a lifetime after living in Philadelphia for nine months, but the Walnut Street wackos are absolutely nothing compared to the nuts I met each and every day in my local, friendly neighborhood drug store. In particular, I recall my interaction with a woman who had no tongue. That's right, she was a mute. Anyway, I was going about doing my business, straightening deodorant and performing other important duties, when this perfectly normal looking woman wearing a muumuu taps me on the shoulder and starts murmuring about something or other. I wasn't fazed yet, but little did I know what awaited me. The woman was holding a half-opened package of barrettes in her hand, some of which were missing. Then she started squeaking vehemently and pointing at her package. As you can imagine, I was mystified. First I thought she was speaking a different language, but it soon became obvious she was not. Then I figured it out: I was on Candid Camera, you know, the new one, with Dom DeLuise. Well, I checked around carefully, and soon ascertained that there were no hidden cameras in the store. Too bad. It would have made a good gag. Anyway, this woman brings me over to Aisle 12 and points at where there are no longer any barrettes, the whole time squeaking and squawking, and after a while she was near tears. I was at a loss. I called the manager. He dealt with her. I am okay now, after therapy. In a completely unrelated incident, a young man came in and purchased an icy cold beverage. A Mountain Dew, to be exact. Apparently it was a bad Mountain Dew, because the fellow came back a moment later, complaining about his beverage. Our conversation went something like this: Peeved Chap: Uh? could you check out this Mountain Dew? Me (baffled): What would you like me to do? Peeved Chap: Uh? I don't know. Could you just? like? check it out? It tastes kind of funny. Me (yelling maniacally): What do you mean "Check it out?" What in God's name do you want me to do? It's a beverage, for Christ's sake. Peeved Chap: Uh? could you check it out? Apparently, the fellow had learned a new phrase in his English literacy class, and was utilizing it to its fullest. I showed him the customer satisfaction number on the can, and he went on his merry way. Problem solved. I have myriad stories of other asinine customers, but I am sure they would only succeed in boring you more than I already have, so I will cease here and hope my point has been made. Little do you customers know that we lowly stock boys have weapons to combat your utter stupidity, such as the wild goose chase. Customer: Excuse me, young man. Could you tell me what aisle the after-dinner mints are located in? Me (having absolutely no idea, and with no hesitation): Aisle 17. Again, problem solved -- until the clueless customer, unable to find the object of his desire, seeks you out once more and inquires about another equally unnecessary product. You'd think they would have our system figured out! You see, we stock boys have work to do. We have deodorant to straighten. Think about that, next time you disturb a perfectly innocent stock boy from his burdensome toil. Find the damn thing yourself.