your parents didn't beat you enough when you were a child.

Now that's just trolling.

I happened to be in the famous bookstore today and yes indeed, someone looked very angry... so much so that I didn't go over and say an awkward hello.

Really? If you identified yourself, I wouldn't have given you any grief. (you sure it was me? There's lots of angry employees in that place).

He's really quite tame, if you give him a cookie. : )

This October, I think I'll soften him up by throwing some meat his way, then when he's semi-distracted, come up and shake his hand.

Then, of course, ask where the "Oprah" shelf is.

I stopped by on Sunday because I was in the neighborhood but I figured I wouldn't see you there on your day off. Wasn't sure if your schedule changed. You should go apeshit on them customaries, leap over the desk. I really miss you, man.

Hey, I used to deliver the Baltimore (Evening) Sun to Oprah Winfrey, back when she was doing People Are Talking in Charm City.

Go get 'em Jon. I used to love shutting down pretentious assholes when I worked at a bookstore.

Look (checks nametag) Jon, if that is your name. I'm a very busy man, and I don't have time for some retail monkey to slowly mumble his way through my books. They're all awesome. And very expensive. Of course - I wouldn't expect you to know that. I'm a very important man. Time is at a premium and I'd like to talk to your manager. About your attitude.

I had the same problem years ago when I worked in a bookstore. For example, there was the snooty guy who came in to pick up the book he'd ordered -- "It's a lexicon . . . that's a kind of dictionary." But I had one experience that started out that way but turned out nice. A man came in to pick up 3 titles he'd ordered, but only 1 had come in. So he asked me to hold it, and when the other 2 came in would I please charge his card and ship them to him, because he was in the middle of packing to move to his retirement home in Europe. Sure thing, no problem. So he starts to give me his new address, and says, "I live in Andorra . . . . you don't know where that is." And I said, with all the indignation a grad student can muster, "I do too -- it's in the Pyrenees mountains between France and Spain."

Well, apparently I was the only person he'd EVER met in casual conversation who knew where Andorra is, because he was absolutely delighted and spent the next hour chatting with me about his past career and his family and where I should go for used books if I ever get to England, and he was practically my best friend by the time he left. And the best part was, when his other books finally came and I called the post office to figure out how best to ship them, the post office guy had no idea where Andorra is.

The Man From Andorra. This was over 20 years ago now, I wonder if he's even still alive.

Sounds like someone's got fodder for Not Always Right.

I worked in retail bookselling for 10 years, and another 10 years of computer Helpdesk. While shopping Sunday, I had to repeatedly tell a woman that No, I didn't work there. No, really, I am shopping. NO, I AM CERTAIN THAT I DO NOT WORK HERE IN THIS STORE, AND WOULD LIKE TO CONTINUE MY OWN SHOPPING. I swear she didn't believe me. It's like the Mark of Cain or something. People assume that I am helpful and will give them answers.

It's like the Mark of Cain or something. People assume that I am helpful and will give them answers.

I get this, too, even after being out of retail for almost a decade. I think people often respond to a generally competent air, especially if it's combined with a retail-borne way of slipping through the crowd. It makes you look like you belong where you are, much as the staff of a shop belongs there: they own the space, they are in change.

It happens to me all the time in clothing stores, because I unconsciously walk through straightening garments on their hangers and untangling straps. I can be wearing my big straw hat and sunglasses, carrying my purse, shopping bags, and library books, and I still get asked where the dressing room is.

Uh, that should of course read "they are in charge."

I also get that.

That's funny; I often get asked for help or directions on the street, and as Elsa said, I've always assumed the people asking just assume that I look competent and approachable.

But reading this thread I realize that I *never* get asked for help or directions in a store.

I have worked as a tour guide; I've never worked in retail (well, with a few extremely short-term, extremely disastrous exceptions).

Mark of Cain, indeed. :-)

Hm. I get both -asked for directions on the street, and asked if I work in a store. A friend once theorized I got asked about the store because I don't carry a purse - the assumption being that all women in stores carry purses except the women working there. Well, maybe. But then, I've been both a tour guide and a retail clerk, so maybe it's as Elsa says: you project "Oh yeah, I got this."

The store thing happens so often that I get pissy about it. Sometimes people don't even ask appropriately - they just say "Miss? Miss?" and sometimes do a little wave, and start to get irritated, before I state "I don't work here."

One time a rude woman yelled at me because her Copicard was short a few cents, thus preventing her from printing a paper for a class she was already late for. She was a graduate student who looked like she was in her thirties so she was old enough to know better. I could have released her print job and given it to her for free, but I made her walk all the way to the other side of the library to recharge her card.

Service jobs can be alright. >:) Your day will come, Jon. I hope you have a better day tomorrow!

Sometimes people don't even ask appropriately - they just say "Miss? Miss?" and sometimes do a little wave, and start to get irritated,

A story from the retail trenches:

The dressing room is all the way in the back of the shop, tucked in a corner for privacy. It's reasonably isolated from the rest of the shop.

Often, customers get into the dressing room and disrobe before they realize that they need something else --- a different size, a blouse to try on with the trousers, a slip to go under the see-through dress. We're only too happy to help them, and usually I would approach the dressing room and, from a discreet distance, ask if I could fetch them anything.

One day when I did exactly this, the customer didn't answer. She was clearly in the room and conscious; I could hear signs of her trying on garments. When I repeated my question, she sharply told me to leave her alone. She was a repeat problem customer; this behavior was neither unexpectedly rude nor uncharacteristically so. I returned to my paperwork at the counter.

Shortly afterward, she decided she did need help; she stuck her hand out of the curtain and started snapping her fingers, rapidly, repeatedly.

My co-worker and I exchanged a glance.

I let it go on for a minute or two. A full minute or two. That's a pretty long time, when you stand there and count it off. She continued snapping her fingers, waving her hand with growing agitation, but making no other effort to communicate.

Finally, I approached and asked, "Excuse me, can I help you with something?"

She thrust her head out of the curtain and hollered "YOOOOO HOOOOOO!" directly into my face. Usually, this sound comes out in a lilting tone; this was a low, belligerent bellow.

"I'm right here, ma'am. How can I help you?"

"YOOOOO HOOOOO!"

"I'll be happy to help you with anything you like, ma'am."

She told me it was too late to help her with anything, she would shop elsewhere from now on. (And all our salespersons, present and absent, heaved a silent "Phew!" The owners would be frankly delighted to lose her business.)

I replied that of course she should shop where she feels most comfortable.

She snapped, "Well, when I did need something, you wouldn't come! I even called you by name!"

Uh.

No.

"My name," I coolly informed her, "is not yoooo hooo. My name is Miss."

That is an awesome reply, Elsa. One of those l'esprit de l'escalier things that you actually managed to think of at the time. So impressed.

Well, at that point, I'd spent roughly 16 years in retail. I had an arsenal of saved-up wisecracks rolling around inside my head behind my polite smile. And the real pain of customer relations is the sheer predictability of the insults: however rude the customer can be, it's unlikely to be an entirely novel rudeness.

And lest I sound too bitter: the vast majority of my customers, in that job and in others, were quite pleasant, and many became good friends of mine.

But it's rarely the pleasant people who sear themselves into your memory.

What a HILARIOUS story, Elsa. And I will now faithfully visit notalwaysright.com daily.