|Posted by opheliacrane on March 5, 2016 at 6:10 PM|
Sooo, welcome to my page! I cleaned up a little bit. What do you think? You likey?
Great! I want to present an essay that I wrote a little while ago while sitting at the front desk of my day job. This is my inner monologue. Thank goodness I don't speak everything that crosses my mind.
And so, this is my essay entitled: "IDGAF"
“Did you know you can trade in your Ipad for a new one if the battery runs out?”
I looked up from my computer screen. This woman, who I’d been attempting to check out for the last five or so minutes, looked at me over her checkbook. Her beady, narrow eyes were boring holes into my soul through the modified coke bottles on her face.
“I’m sorry?” I say.
“Your IPad. Like, if the battery runs out, you can replace it for 99 dollars. See, my last one ran out, so I took it back to the IPad store and they said they don’t open them up. But they replaced it for 99 dollars. Isn’t that awesome? This is a 700 dollar IPad.”
She smiles as if she’s just performed a magic trick.
I am trying to check her out. You see, we are not sitting on a porch somewhere drinking a beer. We are not sharing stories over a game of chess or spades or even pinochle. This woman is not my friend. She’s not even my acquaintance. She is standing at the front desk of my place of employment and she is paying the copay for her father, who has been seen as a patient there today.
So. She’s not even a patient.
And no one has said anything about an IPad prior to this outburst.
I stare at her blankly. I’m not in the habit of smiling when I have nothing to smile about, but I manage to force a smile and nod.
“That’s nice,” I say.
In reality, what I mean to say is: “I’m so sorry, but I really don’t give a fuck. I’m sure I look like someone who gives fucks out on a daily basis and based on that, I’m sure you thought I might have some to spare. I don’t, though. Sorry.”
She goes on. Now I have to hear about her boyfriend. Oops, she wrote a check from the wrong checkbook. That one’s Margie’s, her father’s girlfriend, you see. Boy, would that have been a mistake, because she would have seen that she had 25 dollars missing and ooh-ho-ho.
Still staring, I force a smile and laugh.
What I want to say is: “I don’t care. I really do not care at all. All I want is to check your father out so that I can get to the next patient. I do not give two fucks on the moon about your checkbook, or Margie’s checkbook, or your boyfriend or the fact that your father needed his diaper changed in the bathroom before he’s seen and you highly recommend the diaper genie for that sort of thing…”
I don’t give three fucks on Sunday. I don’t give three hundred Spartan fucks through the rolling desert. I do not give a sweet Texas Barbecue fuck at a cattle range. See, I did not ask why you needed to take your dad straight to the bathroom when you came in. I did not ask about your boyfriend or your IPad or your checkbook. Had I asked, I might’ve given a fuck. But I didn’t ask. That should have been your first clue.
Plainly put, I do not give a fuuuuucccckkkk.
Thus is the life in the world of customer service – in any degree. You sit at the front desk with all the Polite 101 home training that you were brought up with and you expect that there is a reason why you were taught not to express yourself in its true, raw form. You imagine your parental figures saying that “we do not say such things in mixed company” and you take that to heart. In a civilized world, we act as thus. When the fuck vault is empty for the day, we must present the appearance of having a plethora to give. Thus is thine lesson in proper customer service.
So, I smile. I smile and I nod and I give the appearance of giving a fuck as I have been taught to do by my mother and my mother’s mother. There I sit in front of my computer, smiling my forced smile as she hands me the right check and she and her father leave.
One day, when I’ve finally lost all my marbles, I will probably end up saying all these things to some poor unsuspecting person. Until then, I must maintain good customer service as best I can. Forced smile, blank stare, my mantra on repeat until the day when I do actually snap and all my training will indeed be for naught.
Sorry, no fucks here to give. Thanks for the boring story, but you should know…I don’t give a fuck.