his is just about exactly what the view from the TCBY kiosk in the Independence Mall looks like. And this is also what I spent every Friday night of my senior year (with about three exceptions) looking out upon.
Except it was filled with vast minions of middle school scum: bubblegum popping, poorly-applied blue eyeshadow, baggy pants and hairspray galore. All those Friday nights of my youth spent slaving away behind the counter dishing out America's finest in soft-serve.
Actually, it's not the "finest", it's the "best". The Country's Best Yogurt, and a Really Crappy Job at that.
And if you'd stopped by the mall tonight, you would've found me there, possibly for the last Friday ever. Not that tonight was the last Friday night ever, of course (or at least, I hope not) but this was my final night at TCBY.
I have, of course, said those words before, but it is my sincere hope that I have served my last large white chocolate mousse with strawberries (an excellent combination, by the by- not that I'm offering to serve it to you, of course). I have asked for the last time "Cup or cone?" to a confused customer (note: the 'or' portion of that question denotes a choice; it is not the sort of question that you reply 'yes' to). I have explained for the billionth and final time how to select the flavors for your smoothie.
"You pick a flavor of juice..." (gesture to the sign which explains this and shows three juice flavors), "...fruit," (gesture to the same sign again, which also shows three fruit toppings to choose from), "and yogurt." (gesture to the same sign, again which also shows two kinds of yogurt we can make your smoothie with). Yes, I know it is complicated, but I generally believe that, if you think about it, it's not that difficult to get, especially after about the second or third time you have it explained.
You would not believe the number of people who get all flustered and say (these are actual comments, mind you) things like "Huh?", "I don't get it, can I get a chocolate smoothie?", "Ok, I'll take the vanilla and strawberry, no juice for me" and "Oh, I didn't realize this was so complicated. I'll just have a vanilla in a cup."
Which is fine by me really, I didn't want to blend your stupid drink anyway.
I hope at least, that I'll never be explaining, blending, cleaning or generally doing anything other than on the very, very rare occassion, eating at TCBY ever again.
That is a strange thought though; I have worked at TCBY for 18 months or so (although not for the last four months, as I've been in school). I realize this doesn't exactly qualify me for a Lifetime Achievement award in soft-serve service, but to stay in that crappy store (actually, it's technically a "kiosk", not even good enough to have four actual walls and a door) that is some sort of accomplishment.
(I guess.)
Vladimir, my semi-evil Russian immigrant boss (whom I have only seen once in the past three weeks on account of his trip to Israel) was by no means, an easy person to get along with. He is known as the "Ice Cream Nazi" in various circles (which might not be entirely appropriate since he's Russian, not German, and it's yogurt, not ice cream, and I doubt he would ever say "No ice cream for you!" to a customer since he's generally pretty gung-ho about staying open and serving ever last fucking customer, even after the mall is closed...)
Though, for some unknown reason (or perhaps it had something to do with the fact that I am generally polite, somewhere near on time, and actually work while I'm at work) he decided he liked me and was generally much more tolerable to me than my co-workers. Still, he was not above occassionally yelling at one of us in front of customers, or having a small fit over a smoothie that weighed too much.
Yet Russian rantings and all, I don't think Vladimir was the worst part of TCBY. I think the Friday's were.
Maybe this isn't true everywhere- I generally have enough common sense to stay away from major suburban malls on Friday nights when I can avoid it so I wouldn't know- but Friday nights at the mall that I work(ed) in are hell. Pure, utter hell, populated by the creatins of civilization otherwise known as middle school students.
Though they are by far, not the only crappy customers who exist they are among the most obnoxious people you will ever encounter, especially when encountered in large groups of ten or twenty, especially when they are waiting in your line, each demanding a parfait and carefully and tediously taking a good ten minutes or so (approximately) to decide exactly which topping they would like on the top.
They don't tip. Like, ever. Tips were about the only good thing about TCBY, and I must admit, it is not very hard to buy my everlasting adoration and affection; it only costs about a dollar, placed neatly in my tip cup.
I understand not everybody will tip, and I will forgive it if you're a generally polite and decent customer. And it's not just the tweleve year olds who fall short there, believe you me.
Manners are so very important, and while they might not make me remember you, do not think I will forget you if you are rude. No, no, I will not forget if you for example, should argue about the price and announce that my cash register is "wrong" because you do not understand the concept of a 5% tax, and if you get flustered when I explain to you the finer (and yet- so very simple) points of math- do not think I will forget. I do not forget people who have small tantrums over a penny (one fucking cent! She was pissed about one-hundreth of a dollar!) and even if you come back, over a year later and order your same fucking medium chocolate and vanilla swirled, in a cup, with chocolate sprinkles and a cone (wafer, not sugar or much eye-rolling will follow)- I will not forget. I will remember you. No, I won't spit in your yogurt (although I ought to) but I will be so sweet and polite that you will look like an even bigger, bitchier, more evil of an old hag than you already are when you roll your eyes for no good reason.
And I might charge you for those sprinkles too, which I might not usually even bother with. But in your case- oh, in your case- exceptions can be made.
If I thought you were going to tip me, and that you'd need that extra ten cents to add to my tip jar, maybe I would go easy on you. I might, you know. I might not talk about what a bitch you are after you walk off to indulge in calories that, really, a woman of your age ought to be watching.
I do not know your name, whoever you are, you hag who orders medium cups of vanilla and chocolate swirlled with chocolate sprinkles and a wafer cone on top- and perhaps it's a good thing (for my mental health, that is) that I don't- but I assure you I do get some sick satisfaction out of annoucing to the world (or well, a couple dozen daily readers) that you are, in fact, a big, ugly, old hag.
And that I will never, ever serve you yogurt again.