What I did Over My Summer Vacation, or, How I Saved the World, didn't Marry a Princess, and Met a Unicorn
I'm sitting up front with the register, about 5 minutes 'till closing, when I see this women walking towards the store through the Exxon parking lot. At this point, I start doing the “fuck off dance”, a bit of juju I'd developed through long hours of wishful thinking. She didn't go away. That goddamn dance has always been useless.
To top off the night, she looks about two steps above homeless on the economic scale, at that special point where you believe in perfect service, but were never taught how to tip. Still preforming the Fuck Off Dance, I tell Dave to stop cleaning – we've got a customer. Actually, I used a great deal of profanity to get this point across, but I'll remove that part, because I appreciate the strain my repeated use of the Fuck Off Dance has put on your sensitive ears.
The Fuck Off Dance? Only the most powerful bit of mental telepathy ever developed in Peoria.
You see, customer's know when you hate them. Even if you've been smiling since they walked in, they can still tell. But mere hate doesn't keep the customers away. You need something special for real and accurate customer deterrence. I rely on repeated mutterence of the words “fuck off”. To tell you the truth, I'm not really sure why I call it a dance. I suppose the Fuck Off Mantra doesn't sound quite so assertive. Anyway, if you've ever been the first or last of a restaurant's customers, you've probably been given a dose of the Fuck Off Dance. Ask your waiter about it.
Which is sort of where I learned about the dance, asking a waiter. See, Dave used to wait tables at this Italian chain in the mall, a few stores down from the place we both worked at that summer. He didn't call it anything like "fuck off dance", but he told me how much he hated "those fucking customers" everytime he was on break, so I got the point.
The bell jingles, the woman walks in, and she's walking that walk you see during the first few minutes of a president's funeral procession, or like those Storm Troopers who always follow Darth Vader, or even the way a cat moves when you've just opened the screen door and it glides towards you with a small furry animal between its' jaws. A messenger, a Woman On a Mission.
To top off the night, she looks about two steps above homeless on the economic scale, at that special point where you believe in perfect service, but were never taught how to tip. Still preforming the Fuck Off Dance, I tell Dave to stop cleaning – we've got a customer. Actually, I used a great deal of profanity to get this point across, but I'll remove that part, because I appreciate the strain my repeated use of the Fuck Off Dance has put on your sensitive ears.
The Fuck Off Dance? Only the most powerful bit of mental telepathy ever developed in Peoria.
You see, customer's know when you hate them. Even if you've been smiling since they walked in, they can still tell. But mere hate doesn't keep the customers away. You need something special for real and accurate customer deterrence. I rely on repeated mutterence of the words “fuck off”. To tell you the truth, I'm not really sure why I call it a dance. I suppose the Fuck Off Mantra doesn't sound quite so assertive. Anyway, if you've ever been the first or last of a restaurant's customers, you've probably been given a dose of the Fuck Off Dance. Ask your waiter about it.
Which is sort of where I learned about the dance, asking a waiter. See, Dave used to wait tables at this Italian chain in the mall, a few stores down from the place we both worked at that summer. He didn't call it anything like "fuck off dance", but he told me how much he hated "those fucking customers" everytime he was on break, so I got the point.
The bell jingles, the woman walks in, and she's walking that walk you see during the first few minutes of a president's funeral procession, or like those Storm Troopers who always follow Darth Vader, or even the way a cat moves when you've just opened the screen door and it glides towards you with a small furry animal between its' jaws. A messenger, a Woman On a Mission.
posted by Fifth at 10:17 PM
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