The week of Valentine’s Day is a godawful mess because we will see more clueless boyfriends in the store than we see in the span of a year. Our average customer will just come in, ask to see the cooler, and then pick out a cheapish arrangement. Clueless boyfriends wait sheepishly in the front, trying to figure out who they’re supposed to talk to.
I went up to a huddled group, asking who had not been helped yet and a man in a grey sweatshirt and sweatpants steps forward.
Okay. Cool. Rolled a 19 on his initiative. Good for you, sweatpants dude.
“Do you deliver outside of town?”
“How far outside of town?”
“We can send an order to a local florist there, but it won’t be our work. Is that okay?”
“That’s fine. Write this down,” he commanded, still riding high on that initiative roll, I suppose. I’m preparing for a complicated order. He wants one vase of two-dozen roses and five vases of one dozen roses.
It was not as complicated as I thought it was.
… he goes to pay. He pulls out a mighty stack of Visa gift cards, says there’s $100 on each. I type in each card number and each of them declines.
“I’m sorry, but it seems our system isn’t accepting your gift cards.”
“There’s money on there, you must have typed something in wrong.”
So I type them in again. None will go through. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t tell you what the problem is-”
“If I went down the street and swiped it somewhere, they’d let me take it, so it must be something you’re doing.”
“Our system sometimes has trouble processing gift cards, you’ll have to forgive-”
“Don’t you have somewhere to swipe it since you’re having so much trouble.”
“Our system is very old sir. We have to type them in manually.”
“Let me go get my wallet. I left it in my car because I thought I wouldn’t NEED it.”
I mean… if you’re down to leave your entire wallet in your car in a high-crime area like ours… good for you.
So I let him go, he comes back with cash. $400, all in 100-dollar bills. I do what I do with every large bill- I check to see if it’s legit. I’ve been handed my fair share of phony bills before, so I make a habit of checking each one.
Sweatpants is upset by this. “Why are you treating me like this?”
“You know, I don’t normally dress like this. I just came from a car show and that’s why I’m dressed down.”
“You’re treating me like I’m trying to pull a fast one on you. You did see that I drive a Porsche, right? There’s no reason for you to be treating me like a thief.”
“Hold tight just one second while I go talk with my manager, okay?”
I was unaware that basic tendering skills was an act of extreme prejudice amongst the Porsche-driving elite.