Something happens to customers during the holiday shopping season; the bright lights, holiday music and dollar signs dancing in their heads magnify their inert jerkness, selfishness, and their perception that the whole retail world somehow owes them something; like their special circumstances of being alive and having a child who wants Bakugan, gives them the right to get one, even if we don’t have them; Or their shear desire gives them the inalienable right to the Jillian Michaels Wii game.
Scene: earlier today in the video game section of the world’s largest toy store
Customer: Do you have the Jillian Michaels disk?
Me: No, we’re sold out.
Customer: They always do that!
Me: (looking puzzled)
Customer: How many did you have? Like 2?
Me: I’m not sure, but we usually don’t get less than 12 of a game when it first comes out.
Customer: This always happens. (clearly annoyed that I am responsible for this dastardly tactic.) They advertise it, and then only have 1 or 2 in the store. They get you in here and you buy other stuff.
2nd customer-nearby: (sympathetically) Is it in the ad?
Customer: It was in Sunday’s ad.
Me: (voice over in my head) It’s Tuesday afternoon, that’s like two and a half days.
And so the official start of the Christmas season begins.
Associates hunker down like cold war 1950s, stockpiling a nuclear arsenal headed by Wii consoles, and sniffing out communist sympathizers (Bakugan, who clearly purposefully didn’t produce enough toys to satisfy demands, thus upsetting the American consumer and derailing the retail wage slaves who take the brunt of the blame that some poor child will wake up on Christmas morning and not have the little plastic ball that opens into a monster.)
My first attack came later that same day from a friendly face I’d seen just a few days prior. I remembered her and her friend.
Customer: I’m here for a Wii Guitar Hero World Tour Bundle.
Me: (looking at the large stack of them she just passed by) Okay.
A short standoff ensues before I retreat around the edge of my register counter over to the stacks of games, grab the top one and carry it back around and set it on the counter.
Me: (after attending to the numerous details of starting a transaction) That’ll be 189.99.
Customer: What? You said it was $99. (She meant the other day. I remembered the conversation)
Me: Actually, what I said was, I’m not sure what the price will be, but I heard $99. Which is the price of the bundle with the guitar and game.
Customer: You told me it was $99.
Me: What I said was, I’m not sure the price, but I heard $99. Which is the price of the bundle with the guitar and game.
Customer: You walked over here and checked the price, brought this card back and told me it was $99.
Me: I remember you. I remember that day. And I couldn’t find a price, which annoyed me, because I should have that information, so what I said was, I’m not sure the price, but I heard $99. Which is the price of the bundle with the guitar and game.
Customer: We were standing next to the drums and you said this was $99.
Me: It’s $189.00, the one with the guitar is …
Customer: You told me $99.
Me: Would you like to speak with a manager.
That’s my own personal duck and cover drill. Call the manager. I don’t get paid enough to deal with that.
What gets into people who yell and scream and insist that the store make things right, when in fact it was a misunderstanding, which really wasn’t my fault?
This person was bad, but not the worst.
I’ve had worse experiences, like this one:
Scene: me walking around straightening the store looking for customers to help. Two preteen boys are goofing off, pealing clearance stickers from PS One games and pasting them onto PS2 display boxes.
Me: Guys!
Guys: Sorry. (They laugh sheepishly, and skedaddle. I follow them at least to the end of the row, and watch them leave. Another customer has found the boxes and brought one to the register.)
Customer: This says $7.99
Me: Those kids I just chased out were peeling stickers from the PS one games.
Customer: I want this.
Me: They’re $129.99
Customer: It says right on here $7.99
Me: We didn’t do that, those kids were goofing off.
Customer: I want it for this price.
Me: Excuse me?
Customer: The box says $7.99 and I want it for that price.
Me: I can’t sell that to you.
Customer: You have to. The box says this price. You have to honor that.
Me: Fine. I’ll sell you that display box for $7.99. It’s empty though. I think you’ll be disappointed.
In the end, I called my manager, who calmly explained how we are not legally bound to sell a product at a price, even if the price is marked on the box, so even if this were a mistake by one of our employees, we wouldn’t sell the Playstation for that price.
I should have sold her the box.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Cheater Max ... or Food Court Folly.
I’ve recently realized I eat an inordinate amount at the Mall food court.
The realization came at Wal-Mart (of all places I think about spending too much time somewhere)
On Sunday evening in the parking lot of Wal-Mart, I saw the workers from China Max. They recognized me.
At the time I thought it was both cool and a little weird that workers from a food court restaurant would recognize me. How much time do I spend there? Am I unforgettable? How many times do I eat there? Do I have a life?
They probably think I work at the mall, even though I always enter through the outside doors before I being asked if I’d like to try a free sample.
But this isn’t about that weirdness. It’s about another weirdness.
And another Chinese restaurant; Koki’s Grill.
Koki’s, the new Chinese place in the food court, just opened and being an equal opportunity eater, I tried it, even after entering and having my friends offer me a free sample, presumably of orange chicken, which I declined as usual.
I liked it. And by it, I mean the food at Koki’s not the declining of the chicken.
But after eating at Koki’s, I had to pass by China Max, and be asked again to try a free sample, which made me uncomfortable; made me feel like I was doing something wrong. Something forbidden in the realms of fairness in relationships, and make no mistake, seeing the folks from China Max outside of China Max, made me feel like I knew them as more than restaurant workers serving me Bourbon Chicken and fried rice.
We have a relationship now.
I ate at Koki’s again today, and even though I’ve eaten at China Max in between the times I’ve eaten at Koki’s, I can’t help but feel like they know. And are judging me.
And I can’t help but feel bad when I walk past with my unfinished Coke dangling in my hands, China Max workers smiling hello or offering me a free sample, presumably of orange chicken, still friendly but in a stilted way.
I feel like I betrayed a friend.
Like I cheated.
Like I’ve done something wrong eating at a different restaurant.
This could all just be in my mind, but the guilt is real.
It won’t stop me from doing it again, because I really like the Black Pepper Chicken at Koki’s Grill. And China Max just doesn’t have Black Pepper Chicken. They have the Bourbon Chicken, which I like, too, but sometimes you just need a change. A little more spice.
That’s going to be my excuse the day they finally confront me.
“I’ll take the bourbon chicken.”
“No bourbon chicken.”
“Umm, I can see it right there.”
“No bourbon chicken for someone who’s been eating at the other end of the foodcourt.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“We see you walking by with your half full cup of Coke with no ice, still smiling at your fortune. What? Our fortunes not good enough for you?”
“No, you’re fortune’s are great, it’s not that, it’s just I wanted the Black Pepper Chicken.”
“We can make Black Pepper Chicken.”
“It’s not on your menu.”
“So you just run to someone else How do you think that makes us feel? We saw you at Wal-Mart!”
“This is crazy.”
“It is crazy, We thought we knew you, and your two item combo, with rice. But you’re a two item timer!”
“It’s just chicken.”
“You’re a jerk.”
And they’re right.
Why else would I feel guilty when I walk past?
Why else would I hide my half full dangling cup?
Why else would I be blogging about it?
Peace
Larry
The realization came at Wal-Mart (of all places I think about spending too much time somewhere)
On Sunday evening in the parking lot of Wal-Mart, I saw the workers from China Max. They recognized me.
At the time I thought it was both cool and a little weird that workers from a food court restaurant would recognize me. How much time do I spend there? Am I unforgettable? How many times do I eat there? Do I have a life?
They probably think I work at the mall, even though I always enter through the outside doors before I being asked if I’d like to try a free sample.
But this isn’t about that weirdness. It’s about another weirdness.
And another Chinese restaurant; Koki’s Grill.
Koki’s, the new Chinese place in the food court, just opened and being an equal opportunity eater, I tried it, even after entering and having my friends offer me a free sample, presumably of orange chicken, which I declined as usual.
I liked it. And by it, I mean the food at Koki’s not the declining of the chicken.
But after eating at Koki’s, I had to pass by China Max, and be asked again to try a free sample, which made me uncomfortable; made me feel like I was doing something wrong. Something forbidden in the realms of fairness in relationships, and make no mistake, seeing the folks from China Max outside of China Max, made me feel like I knew them as more than restaurant workers serving me Bourbon Chicken and fried rice.
We have a relationship now.
I ate at Koki’s again today, and even though I’ve eaten at China Max in between the times I’ve eaten at Koki’s, I can’t help but feel like they know. And are judging me.
And I can’t help but feel bad when I walk past with my unfinished Coke dangling in my hands, China Max workers smiling hello or offering me a free sample, presumably of orange chicken, still friendly but in a stilted way.
I feel like I betrayed a friend.
Like I cheated.
Like I’ve done something wrong eating at a different restaurant.
This could all just be in my mind, but the guilt is real.
It won’t stop me from doing it again, because I really like the Black Pepper Chicken at Koki’s Grill. And China Max just doesn’t have Black Pepper Chicken. They have the Bourbon Chicken, which I like, too, but sometimes you just need a change. A little more spice.
That’s going to be my excuse the day they finally confront me.
“I’ll take the bourbon chicken.”
“No bourbon chicken.”
“Umm, I can see it right there.”
“No bourbon chicken for someone who’s been eating at the other end of the foodcourt.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“We see you walking by with your half full cup of Coke with no ice, still smiling at your fortune. What? Our fortunes not good enough for you?”
“No, you’re fortune’s are great, it’s not that, it’s just I wanted the Black Pepper Chicken.”
“We can make Black Pepper Chicken.”
“It’s not on your menu.”
“So you just run to someone else How do you think that makes us feel? We saw you at Wal-Mart!”
“This is crazy.”
“It is crazy, We thought we knew you, and your two item combo, with rice. But you’re a two item timer!”
“It’s just chicken.”
“You’re a jerk.”
And they’re right.
Why else would I feel guilty when I walk past?
Why else would I hide my half full dangling cup?
Why else would I be blogging about it?
Peace
Larry
Friday, June 20, 2008
Czech please stop it
I just heard, or more correctly, overheard, this conversation in Panera:
Old guy talking to young Panera girl, dressed in her pastel uniform. Conversation is in full gear by the time I’m earshot.
OG: Where are your parents from?
PG: Czech Republic
OG: Oh, do you know what a Czechoslovakian abortion is?
PG: No.
OG: Canceled Czech.
Now there are a few things wrong here.
First of all, it seems majorly inappropriate to tell that joke to someone you don’t know.
Secondly, for an octogenarian to tell the joke to a twenty something while she works feels awkward too.
Thirdly, the poor girl didn’t get it.
PG: I don’t get it.
OG tells it again, with no further explanation, as if that would clear it up. It doesn’t it.
OG: You know like at the bank when they cancel a check? It’s the Czech getting canceled.
PG: I understand, I just don’t know what Slovakia has to do with it.
The old guy doesn’t realize Czechoslovakia is not two separate states. Czech Republic and Slovakia. His memory bank of jokes doesn’t up date with the political climate.
I’d like to think the girl got the joke but sensibility prevented her from laughing and ‘please the customer’ attitude prevented her from expressing her outrage, so she expressed it by calling the guy on his knowledge of life outside the United States.
I’m assuming he should be updated on life in the US, too.
prologue
As I sat down to enjoy my drink and the free wi-fi that allowed me to post this so quickly, the old guy gravitated to the booth directly in front of mine. (behind mine, if you’re my bookbag.)
He greets the woman there, and before she can introduce him to her man friend, the Old Guy breaks out another joke.
OG: A man goes into a grocery store and asks the kid if he can get half a head of cabbage, the kid says he doesn’t know, he’ll have to ask someone else about that. So the kid walks into the back, and unknown to him the man follows. The kid reaches his manager and says, ‘some asshole out there wants to buy half a head of cabbage.’ The manager sees the gentle man standing behind the kid and says in a stern voice, do you mean this gentleman? The kid turns around makes eye contact with the man and says, no, this is the nice gentleman who wants to buy the other half.
After the customer leaves, the manager remarks how quick that thinking was, so quick he wants to make the kid a manager at his Detroit store. The kid says, Detroit? The only thing in Detroit is hockey players and whores. The manager says, my mother lives in Detroit, to which the kid replies, oh yeah, what team does she play on.
Now there are a few things wrong with this. It presupposed Detroit hockey players are not whores. Second, it’s an awful long joke to tell to someone who is waiting patiently to eat their soup, or who is trying to write fast enough not to forget the Czech incident that just happened. And it’s not that funny.
I bet that guy would be a pain in the ass to work with or be related to.
And lastly, I’ll be telling that at the next gathering, as a follow up to this:
You know what they call a canceled check in the Czech Republic?
An abortion.
Peace
Larry
Old guy talking to young Panera girl, dressed in her pastel uniform. Conversation is in full gear by the time I’m earshot.
OG: Where are your parents from?
PG: Czech Republic
OG: Oh, do you know what a Czechoslovakian abortion is?
PG: No.
OG: Canceled Czech.
Now there are a few things wrong here.
First of all, it seems majorly inappropriate to tell that joke to someone you don’t know.
Secondly, for an octogenarian to tell the joke to a twenty something while she works feels awkward too.
Thirdly, the poor girl didn’t get it.
PG: I don’t get it.
OG tells it again, with no further explanation, as if that would clear it up. It doesn’t it.
OG: You know like at the bank when they cancel a check? It’s the Czech getting canceled.
PG: I understand, I just don’t know what Slovakia has to do with it.
The old guy doesn’t realize Czechoslovakia is not two separate states. Czech Republic and Slovakia. His memory bank of jokes doesn’t up date with the political climate.
I’d like to think the girl got the joke but sensibility prevented her from laughing and ‘please the customer’ attitude prevented her from expressing her outrage, so she expressed it by calling the guy on his knowledge of life outside the United States.
I’m assuming he should be updated on life in the US, too.
prologue
As I sat down to enjoy my drink and the free wi-fi that allowed me to post this so quickly, the old guy gravitated to the booth directly in front of mine. (behind mine, if you’re my bookbag.)
He greets the woman there, and before she can introduce him to her man friend, the Old Guy breaks out another joke.
OG: A man goes into a grocery store and asks the kid if he can get half a head of cabbage, the kid says he doesn’t know, he’ll have to ask someone else about that. So the kid walks into the back, and unknown to him the man follows. The kid reaches his manager and says, ‘some asshole out there wants to buy half a head of cabbage.’ The manager sees the gentle man standing behind the kid and says in a stern voice, do you mean this gentleman? The kid turns around makes eye contact with the man and says, no, this is the nice gentleman who wants to buy the other half.
After the customer leaves, the manager remarks how quick that thinking was, so quick he wants to make the kid a manager at his Detroit store. The kid says, Detroit? The only thing in Detroit is hockey players and whores. The manager says, my mother lives in Detroit, to which the kid replies, oh yeah, what team does she play on.
Now there are a few things wrong with this. It presupposed Detroit hockey players are not whores. Second, it’s an awful long joke to tell to someone who is waiting patiently to eat their soup, or who is trying to write fast enough not to forget the Czech incident that just happened. And it’s not that funny.
I bet that guy would be a pain in the ass to work with or be related to.
And lastly, I’ll be telling that at the next gathering, as a follow up to this:
You know what they call a canceled check in the Czech Republic?
An abortion.
Peace
Larry
Friday, May 30, 2008
The Reason Books Rule
I was moved to tears yesterday.
No kidding – as I am prone to do in blogs. No exaggerating – as I am also prone to do. No making up part of this or changing details so it reads better.
Just tears.
From reading.
The book: They Don’t Play Hockey In Heaven.
The story: A 250 page autobiography of a 31 year old man trying to revive his professional hockey dreams after 9 years and removal of a brain tumor. (The brain tumor is its own story chronicled in Man Made, which I will be searching for in used book stores.)
Ken Baker wasn’t just some hack former player, he was the winning goalie on the US Under 17 world championship youth hockey team. World Championship.
He was on track to be on the ‘92 Olympic team, former teammates with Mike Modano. Baker thought he just lost the desire to play, or lacked the commitment to stay in shape, but unknown to anyone, the brain tumor sapped his testosterone. Life unexpectedly stole his dreams.
In later years, the tumor was discovered, treated and a dream – an actual sleeping dream – inspired him to play gain. First in afternoon pickup games and adult league fun games, and then he tried out for AA hockey
To Ken Baker, it didn’t matter. He just wanted a shot at being paid to play hockey, so he left his successful writing career, his new marriage and his home, and moved to Bakersfield, California.
AA hockey. Two steps below the NHL. Rarely do players make the transition. Think Wheeling Nailers. Think long bus rides, long hours, #3 goalie, with practically no practice time, 32 years old by this time, without knowing if he would ever get into a game. $50 a week, as an emergency goalie.
He was determined to do it. Dedicated to the dream. It was real life. Inspirational.
And when he finally got into a game – the last two minutes with a 7-2 lead – and made a save, the crowd went wild. (they knew his story) and I broke down. Perhaps I was tired from reading for 5 straight hours for the second day in a row.
Perhaps Ken Baker is that great.
Either way, I was moved.
Later he played a whole game. He won. I was moved to tears again.
He retired after that one season, but he’d made it.
Live the dream.
Peace
Larry
No kidding – as I am prone to do in blogs. No exaggerating – as I am also prone to do. No making up part of this or changing details so it reads better.
Just tears.
From reading.
The book: They Don’t Play Hockey In Heaven.
The story: A 250 page autobiography of a 31 year old man trying to revive his professional hockey dreams after 9 years and removal of a brain tumor. (The brain tumor is its own story chronicled in Man Made, which I will be searching for in used book stores.)
Ken Baker wasn’t just some hack former player, he was the winning goalie on the US Under 17 world championship youth hockey team. World Championship.
He was on track to be on the ‘92 Olympic team, former teammates with Mike Modano. Baker thought he just lost the desire to play, or lacked the commitment to stay in shape, but unknown to anyone, the brain tumor sapped his testosterone. Life unexpectedly stole his dreams.
In later years, the tumor was discovered, treated and a dream – an actual sleeping dream – inspired him to play gain. First in afternoon pickup games and adult league fun games, and then he tried out for AA hockey
To Ken Baker, it didn’t matter. He just wanted a shot at being paid to play hockey, so he left his successful writing career, his new marriage and his home, and moved to Bakersfield, California.
AA hockey. Two steps below the NHL. Rarely do players make the transition. Think Wheeling Nailers. Think long bus rides, long hours, #3 goalie, with practically no practice time, 32 years old by this time, without knowing if he would ever get into a game. $50 a week, as an emergency goalie.
He was determined to do it. Dedicated to the dream. It was real life. Inspirational.
And when he finally got into a game – the last two minutes with a 7-2 lead – and made a save, the crowd went wild. (they knew his story) and I broke down. Perhaps I was tired from reading for 5 straight hours for the second day in a row.
Perhaps Ken Baker is that great.
Either way, I was moved.
Later he played a whole game. He won. I was moved to tears again.
He retired after that one season, but he’d made it.
Live the dream.
Peace
Larry
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Pens vs Flyers: threats, fan(atic)s and accusations of tanking
Wow. People (supposedly normal people) posting on the internet while waiting for the Pens-Flyers series to start are angry. And rabid - not in a good way.
Internet discussions are pretty much focused on petty name calling and accusations about players, fans and whole cities sexuality, manhood, and general superiority compared to their fans, players and city.
Can I get an intelligent conversation about hockey?
Or do the sites only let posters on who also tip cars and burn couches after major and minor victories.
Here’s my predictions for the series:
Both teams’ fans will complain about officiating – even when they win.
All Flyers fans will say Sidney Crosby dives, and Pens fans will say the Flyers are goons.
Crosby will be booed in Philly and Hatcher will be booed in Pittsburgh.
Whoever loses will blame it on officiating first, unlucky bounces second and underachieving third. Neither will admit the other team was better.
Oh, yea, and in the midst of this complaining a great series of hockey will take place, between two teams with great skill, grit and passion.
And if I hear one more comment about how the Pens 'tanked' their season finale against the Flyers so they didn't have to play the Flyers I think I'll scream. It was bad enough that the Senators tried to use this tactic to motivate their team, but now Philly is using it?
Hello Philly fans, if you really think the Pens tanked that game, you'd better be really worried, because your team barely won. An empty netter? Against a team bent on tanking the game? One goal against a team determined to lose?
If that's all the better the Flyers play, they're not going to fair well against that same team going all out.
So to all you internet posters, Shut up, and talk hockey.
Larry (posting on the internet)
Internet discussions are pretty much focused on petty name calling and accusations about players, fans and whole cities sexuality, manhood, and general superiority compared to their fans, players and city.
Can I get an intelligent conversation about hockey?
Or do the sites only let posters on who also tip cars and burn couches after major and minor victories.
Here’s my predictions for the series:
Both teams’ fans will complain about officiating – even when they win.
All Flyers fans will say Sidney Crosby dives, and Pens fans will say the Flyers are goons.
Crosby will be booed in Philly and Hatcher will be booed in Pittsburgh.
Whoever loses will blame it on officiating first, unlucky bounces second and underachieving third. Neither will admit the other team was better.
Oh, yea, and in the midst of this complaining a great series of hockey will take place, between two teams with great skill, grit and passion.
And if I hear one more comment about how the Pens 'tanked' their season finale against the Flyers so they didn't have to play the Flyers I think I'll scream. It was bad enough that the Senators tried to use this tactic to motivate their team, but now Philly is using it?
Hello Philly fans, if you really think the Pens tanked that game, you'd better be really worried, because your team barely won. An empty netter? Against a team bent on tanking the game? One goal against a team determined to lose?
If that's all the better the Flyers play, they're not going to fair well against that same team going all out.
So to all you internet posters, Shut up, and talk hockey.
Larry (posting on the internet)
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Three things overheard over the past few weeks
1) After buying some books from Half-Price Books (one of my favorite places) the sales clerk asked if I needed a bag. And because I've b(eco)me (eco)nomical I said no, and she answered: "Groovy."
I wasn't aware people still said Groovy.
2) I didn't hear this one, but my girlfriends goddaughter, told us the story. She is in kindergarten, and was riding home on the bus, wearing a new pink leopard print jacket and a boy on her bus said: "I like your jacket. If I was a girl, and sometimes I wish I was, I would like a jacket like that."
Evidently, I’m not aware of a lot of things.
3) We were sitting outside the new I-Hop in Robinson (that's right, International House of Pancakes finally in the Pittsburgh area) waiting for the pancake goodness, when a family exited the restaurant. A boy no more than 7 holding his father's hand said as he passed by: "My taste buds just shot straight to heaven."
I-Hop should pick that up as their new slogan.
It would be Groovy. And if I was a pancake, and sometimes I wish I was, I would want to send taste buds to heaven.
Keep your ears open.
Peace
Larry
I wasn't aware people still said Groovy.
2) I didn't hear this one, but my girlfriends goddaughter, told us the story. She is in kindergarten, and was riding home on the bus, wearing a new pink leopard print jacket and a boy on her bus said: "I like your jacket. If I was a girl, and sometimes I wish I was, I would like a jacket like that."
Evidently, I’m not aware of a lot of things.
3) We were sitting outside the new I-Hop in Robinson (that's right, International House of Pancakes finally in the Pittsburgh area) waiting for the pancake goodness, when a family exited the restaurant. A boy no more than 7 holding his father's hand said as he passed by: "My taste buds just shot straight to heaven."
I-Hop should pick that up as their new slogan.
It would be Groovy. And if I was a pancake, and sometimes I wish I was, I would want to send taste buds to heaven.
Keep your ears open.
Peace
Larry
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Ben Ten Little Piggies (and then there were nine)
So, I broke a kid's toe today.
At work. Not a child, but a coworker, for those of you who know I work in a toy store but not how I liberally use the word ‘kid.’ This kid was in his early 20s. (presumably he still is, with the mortality rate of broken toes being what they are.)
Breaking a toe may seem like a strange result working in a toy store, especially considering it was the big toe; the hardest one to break; the one that went to market.
But I did it by accidentally lowering a one-ton palette of sand on it. And then quickly jacking the palette jack back up as his face contorted in pain and he kept repeating, “Up, up, up!”
He took it well. Better than I would have.
Better than I did.
I am now in a funk over this accident that I can’t help thinking I could have prevented. I’m not sure how. Is there anything worse than accidentally hurting someone you hardly know, wondering why this had to happen, and how this person is going to react?
Is there anything worse than watching as he limps away, unable to put weight on the toe, and knowing that’s your fault?
Did I ruin the next six weeks of his life?
Will I be in trouble with his family, with my boss, with his friends and my coworkers?
Why did this happen to me? Why?
Will he hate me? Be mad? Be angry? Be forgiving?
Is there anything worse than the unknowing? The moments before you apologize, before you know for sure the extent of the damage?
Is there anything worse than the guilt feelings that have been lingering with me all day; the guilt that hung in the air in the back of the truck almost too thick to push boxes through as I finished unloading without my partner who was on his way to the hospital?
Is there anything worse than that?
Of course there is.
Having a broken toe and being on my way to the hospital.
And the guilt grows …
(Be well, Ben Ten.)
At work. Not a child, but a coworker, for those of you who know I work in a toy store but not how I liberally use the word ‘kid.’ This kid was in his early 20s. (presumably he still is, with the mortality rate of broken toes being what they are.)
Breaking a toe may seem like a strange result working in a toy store, especially considering it was the big toe; the hardest one to break; the one that went to market.
But I did it by accidentally lowering a one-ton palette of sand on it. And then quickly jacking the palette jack back up as his face contorted in pain and he kept repeating, “Up, up, up!”
He took it well. Better than I would have.
Better than I did.
I am now in a funk over this accident that I can’t help thinking I could have prevented. I’m not sure how. Is there anything worse than accidentally hurting someone you hardly know, wondering why this had to happen, and how this person is going to react?
Is there anything worse than watching as he limps away, unable to put weight on the toe, and knowing that’s your fault?
Did I ruin the next six weeks of his life?
Will I be in trouble with his family, with my boss, with his friends and my coworkers?
Why did this happen to me? Why?
Will he hate me? Be mad? Be angry? Be forgiving?
Is there anything worse than the unknowing? The moments before you apologize, before you know for sure the extent of the damage?
Is there anything worse than the guilt feelings that have been lingering with me all day; the guilt that hung in the air in the back of the truck almost too thick to push boxes through as I finished unloading without my partner who was on his way to the hospital?
Is there anything worse than that?
Of course there is.
Having a broken toe and being on my way to the hospital.
And the guilt grows …
(Be well, Ben Ten.)
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