I had a job interview. I power-walked down the street; freshly pressed suit, a collared shirt that brought out my best colors, boots with just a bit of heel and an overcoat with subtle style hints in monochrome buttons and squared shoulders. I was researched, rehearsed, and ready to present myself in my best light. I felt pretty good. I turned a few heads.
One of those heads was a homeless guy who laughed and said, "Oooh lah dee daaah!" as he waved his hands and walked past me.
It is good to be humbled. It is even better to laugh at yourself.
The last two days I have walked past Spencer Gifts on my break. Both times I have seen the same couldn't-be-older-than-Justin-Bieber-year-old-girl, leaning on the railing outside, bumming with her high-school-was-their-glory-days buddies, sucking on a rainbow-striped grown-man sized phallic lollipop.
My register froze. It does this from time to time, but this was the fourth time today, and there had been a string of difficult customers. Venting my frustrations, I eululated a low-volume high-pitched cartoon-Cartman-calibur "Meeeeeeeeeh!" from my pouty face. When the display screen kicked back into gear, with my pussface I called out "Next!", only to look up and see a woman in her mid-to-late-forties who had been botoxed into a perminent pussface under her bleached blonde straw mop. When she spoke from her pixienose she berated me in a perfect reflection of my whiney impression. "You know I think you're very rude and I'm calling corporate to complain, what's your name?" "Minnie," I said. "Next."
At least five times a day, there have been hang-up phone calls to the store phone. The caller stays on the line long enough to hear us say our monotone bisentence speach about the store they've reached, the big promotion going on, whom is speaking. Hang-ups happen, it's a large store with a public phone number. But a few of us have heard breathing before a click. One girl swears she heard a moan. None of the phones have caller i.d.
Now, we always make the new girl pick up the phone.