So the other day at lunch, I had the pleasure of seeing one of our favorite crackhead customers. She was dressed in pajamas and was completely strung out. I wanted to slyly take a picture of her for you all to see, but I was scared that if she caught me, she'd beat my ass.
When she came in, she made a beeline for the bathroom and was back out within 30 seconds. I don't know what she did in there, but I was impressed. She then got into line, where our sweet employee Ms. W asked her if she had any money with her this time. Offended, our favorite crackhead flashed a big wad of bills. Satisfied, Ms. W continued with the lady's order.
At this point you may be wondering if we treat all of our crackhead customers so rudely. No, but we'd sure like to. You see, not all crackheads actually have the money for the meal we've just created especially for them. So that means it has to be thrown away because there's nothing worse than a crackhead's sandwich. It's always drenched in every kind of sauce we have and nobody -- I mean NOBODY (not even my husband) -- would dare take a bite of this disgusting concoction.
So why is this lady so special? Well, the day before, she came into the store, placed her crazy sandwich order, got to the register, and sadly announced that she must have "lost" her wallet. So, the kind lady behind her in line offered to purchase her sandwich. Here's how it went...
Ms. W: That'll be $3.49.
Crackhead Lady: Ah damn. I think I musta lost my wallet. I ain't got no money and I shore am hongry.
Nice Lady Behind Her in Line: Sweetie, the same thing happened to me once. I can buy your sandwich for you today.
Crackhead Lady (to Ms. W): Then make me another one. This lady's buying!
Gotta love the crackheads!
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Thankfulness
One of the most rewarding parts of being a small-business owner is how people really appreciate when you go out of their way to help them. Whether it's by giving an obviously worn-out mother a free cookie to help quiet down her screaming toddler or by not calling social services when you hear that same mother scream "SHUT THE HELL UP!" to the newborn in the stroller who's too young to eat a cookie, it's all about taking care of people.
And we don't just limit that to our customers. We take care of our employees as well.
Take A, for instance. Though it was debatable whether or not he washed regularly, he was an excellent employee.* My husband had taken him under his wing and was mentoring him on how much lettuce to put on a sandwich, when all of a sudden, the poor kid had had too much. His body went rigid, his eyes glazed over, and a low, guttural sound emanated from his throat.
At that moment, his body pitched backwards and hit the counter behind him. My husband rushed to help him, but A hit the floor. THUMP! That's when the shaking and the trembling and the jerking started happening.
My husband freaked. No one had ever mentioned to him that A had any kind of medical issues that might result in a seizure. He immediately dialed 911. Within minutes, the ambulance had arrived and our non-responsive employee was loaded up and taken to the hospital with the sirens blaring.
Shaken, D called in another employee to handle the rest of A's shift and waited for an update on his condition. The call came in just a few hours later. It was A, now recovered enough to talk on the phone. Their conversation went something like this:
Ring...ring...
D: Hello?
A: Hey, it's A.
D: Oh my God. It's so good to hear from you. How are you? Are you OK?
A: Man, don't ever call an ambulance for me again. I can't afford that shit. I just got the epilepsy.
The End.
Don't you just love a happy ending?
*What is the definition of an excellent employee, you may be wondering? Easy: one who shows up on time.
And we don't just limit that to our customers. We take care of our employees as well.
Take A, for instance. Though it was debatable whether or not he washed regularly, he was an excellent employee.* My husband had taken him under his wing and was mentoring him on how much lettuce to put on a sandwich, when all of a sudden, the poor kid had had too much. His body went rigid, his eyes glazed over, and a low, guttural sound emanated from his throat.
At that moment, his body pitched backwards and hit the counter behind him. My husband rushed to help him, but A hit the floor. THUMP! That's when the shaking and the trembling and the jerking started happening.
My husband freaked. No one had ever mentioned to him that A had any kind of medical issues that might result in a seizure. He immediately dialed 911. Within minutes, the ambulance had arrived and our non-responsive employee was loaded up and taken to the hospital with the sirens blaring.
Shaken, D called in another employee to handle the rest of A's shift and waited for an update on his condition. The call came in just a few hours later. It was A, now recovered enough to talk on the phone. Their conversation went something like this:
Ring...ring...
D: Hello?
A: Hey, it's A.
D: Oh my God. It's so good to hear from you. How are you? Are you OK?
A: Man, don't ever call an ambulance for me again. I can't afford that shit. I just got the epilepsy.
The End.
Don't you just love a happy ending?
*What is the definition of an excellent employee, you may be wondering? Easy: one who shows up on time.
Monday, August 2, 2010
How to Whip a 90-Year-Old Man
My husband is great with customers. He's always saying things like "yes ma'am" and "no ma'am" and "come back again soon." So when a sweet little old man walked up to my husband and asked him how old he looked, D said, "Sir, you don't look a day over 50."
To that the man bellowed, "Son, I'm 88 years old! Now shake my hand!"
D, slightly amused, offered him his hand. The old man grabbed it and squeezed the shit out of it, grinding all of D's finger bones together. D couldn't believe the audacity of this old man. It was right then and there that D started plotting his revenge...
Fast forward two years. Who does D finally see enter our store again? That same old man. Seemingly forgetful of crushing my husband's hand bones two years prior, he again walked right up to D and asked him how old he looked.
"Sir, you don't look a day over 95!" my husband replied.
"What?" the old man stammered, clearly surprised by the guess. "No, son, I'm 90. Now shake my hand!"
As soon as the old man lifted his hand, my husband grabbed it with all his might and squeezed it with every ounce of strength he possessed. The old man screamed in agony, "OWWWW! Let me go! Let me go!"
Den dropped it and stood there smirking. The old man, trying to figure out what went wrong, finally said, "You must be left-handed."
"No, sir, I'm not," Den replied, glowing with the knowledge that he had in fact just whipped a 90-year-old man.
To that the man bellowed, "Son, I'm 88 years old! Now shake my hand!"
D, slightly amused, offered him his hand. The old man grabbed it and squeezed the shit out of it, grinding all of D's finger bones together. D couldn't believe the audacity of this old man. It was right then and there that D started plotting his revenge...
Fast forward two years. Who does D finally see enter our store again? That same old man. Seemingly forgetful of crushing my husband's hand bones two years prior, he again walked right up to D and asked him how old he looked.
"Sir, you don't look a day over 95!" my husband replied.
"What?" the old man stammered, clearly surprised by the guess. "No, son, I'm 90. Now shake my hand!"
As soon as the old man lifted his hand, my husband grabbed it with all his might and squeezed it with every ounce of strength he possessed. The old man screamed in agony, "OWWWW! Let me go! Let me go!"
Den dropped it and stood there smirking. The old man, trying to figure out what went wrong, finally said, "You must be left-handed."
"No, sir, I'm not," Den replied, glowing with the knowledge that he had in fact just whipped a 90-year-old man.
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