How it went in my head.
There I stood, at my counter, calmly waiting for the next customer to approach, even though the store was incredibly busy. This wasn't a rare situation, since my job at Kinko's has always been to instruct customers in how to serve themselves, rather than actively doing things for them. The door opened, and she walked in. I thought, "Gosh, what a cute little old lady. I don't really have time to do her work for her, but I'd like to help her. I'll bet she's nice." She hobbled slowly to my counter, leaning heavily on her walker. Her face was poorly made up, as if she just couldn't come to terms with her advancing age and was grasping at youth with unfamiliar arthritic claws. Approaching my counter with an exasperated look, she leaned one elbow, wrapped around a salmon-pink windbreaker, onto my counter, and said, "I want you to make some copies for me."
This isn't a rare sort of thing to be asked behind any counter at Kinko's. I hear it daily, and answer it the same way nearly every time. "I'd be happy to show you how to work the machines, ma'am, or if you'd like to place an order for someone to do it for you, the full service counter is just behind you. I can't garauntee that they'll be able to complete your order while you wait, though." Self serve is not about production; it's about education.
"No, I want you to make them for me. I can't wait." She looked around the store, as if someone more competent might be standing just behind me.
"Ma'am," I said, "This is self-serve, and I would be happy to show you how to run the machines, but as I--"
"Fine," she inturrupted. "Get me a card."
As I activated a courtesy card for her, allowing her to make up to 25 copies, my stomach sank a little. More than anything, I hate the haggard old spoil-me bitches that come in. "Does this machine make copies?" they ask, or "How do I start?" Ignoring the fact that there are clear, concise written instructions atop each individual copy machine, and a big green button that says in all caps, "START COPY," I smile and instruct. These women are the kind who don't even ask that, expecting instead for you demonstrate on each of the 75 copies they're making how exactly the machine works.
I led her out to the machines, going nowhere until she got off my counter, onto her walker, and started hobbling irritably to the farthest corner of the store, where I led her to an open machine. I wasn't being cruel; it was simply the only one open. I did get a little bit of pleasure out of watching her hobble, but I wouldn't do that sort of thing just to spite someone. Especially someone disabled and a little bit stupid.
"You don't like your job very much, do you." It was more of a statement than a question.
"What?" This was not precisely the kind of conversation I was used to hearing, even out of the weird old ladies.
"I said, you don't like your job very much, do you?"
"Well, ma'am, it's a job like any other. I like some aspects of it..."
"Here," She said. "Copy these." She handed me a pile of notebook paper torn haphazardly from the book. Not something I could run through the document feeder, on the top of the machine; a pile of disorganized, ill taken care of sheets that would have to be copied individually on the glass face of the machine. I looked back at the register, verifying that yes, there were customers waiting to be rung out.
"I can show you how to make a copy, but I can't stay over here and do these for you, ma'am. I do have other customers I have to take care of as well. I'm sorry, but if you want to place an order--"
"I don't want to place an order. I just want to get some copies. Is there someone else you can send over here that can do his job? You obviously have better things to do."
I really was starting to hate this woman. I had been polite, and I had been helpful. Yes, she was old. Yes, she was slightly disabled. Yes, there was a little runner of snot dripping off the end of her nose. She still had no right to be rude. Patience only goes so far.
"No one else in the store is going to tell you anything different. Our job in this department is simply to tell you how to use the machine. That's all we do. We spend no more than two to three minutes with a customer on the floor, unless time permits. And I have a line." I pointed to the machine, and positioned one page on the glass. "That's where you need to place the page. All you do after that is press the green button. It will make you a copy. Let me know if you need anything else."
"Where do you think you're going?" She said. "I still need help! I don't need that kind of attitude."
I turned on my heel and faced her yet again. My patience finally ended. "You think that's a fucking attitude, bitch?" I grabbed her by her yellow blonde hair, and slammed her nasty face into the glass of the copy machine, pushing the green button with my left hand. The light in the machine pushed itself against her head over and over again, making a sort of high pitched whine. I was breathing way too fast, and the store was silent.
"This," I said, "Is self-serve."
This isn't a rare sort of thing to be asked behind any counter at Kinko's. I hear it daily, and answer it the same way nearly every time. "I'd be happy to show you how to work the machines, ma'am, or if you'd like to place an order for someone to do it for you, the full service counter is just behind you. I can't garauntee that they'll be able to complete your order while you wait, though." Self serve is not about production; it's about education.
"No, I want you to make them for me. I can't wait." She looked around the store, as if someone more competent might be standing just behind me.
"Ma'am," I said, "This is self-serve, and I would be happy to show you how to run the machines, but as I--"
"Fine," she inturrupted. "Get me a card."
As I activated a courtesy card for her, allowing her to make up to 25 copies, my stomach sank a little. More than anything, I hate the haggard old spoil-me bitches that come in. "Does this machine make copies?" they ask, or "How do I start?" Ignoring the fact that there are clear, concise written instructions atop each individual copy machine, and a big green button that says in all caps, "START COPY," I smile and instruct. These women are the kind who don't even ask that, expecting instead for you demonstrate on each of the 75 copies they're making how exactly the machine works.
I led her out to the machines, going nowhere until she got off my counter, onto her walker, and started hobbling irritably to the farthest corner of the store, where I led her to an open machine. I wasn't being cruel; it was simply the only one open. I did get a little bit of pleasure out of watching her hobble, but I wouldn't do that sort of thing just to spite someone. Especially someone disabled and a little bit stupid.
"You don't like your job very much, do you." It was more of a statement than a question.
"What?" This was not precisely the kind of conversation I was used to hearing, even out of the weird old ladies.
"I said, you don't like your job very much, do you?"
"Well, ma'am, it's a job like any other. I like some aspects of it..."
"Here," She said. "Copy these." She handed me a pile of notebook paper torn haphazardly from the book. Not something I could run through the document feeder, on the top of the machine; a pile of disorganized, ill taken care of sheets that would have to be copied individually on the glass face of the machine. I looked back at the register, verifying that yes, there were customers waiting to be rung out.
"I can show you how to make a copy, but I can't stay over here and do these for you, ma'am. I do have other customers I have to take care of as well. I'm sorry, but if you want to place an order--"
"I don't want to place an order. I just want to get some copies. Is there someone else you can send over here that can do his job? You obviously have better things to do."
I really was starting to hate this woman. I had been polite, and I had been helpful. Yes, she was old. Yes, she was slightly disabled. Yes, there was a little runner of snot dripping off the end of her nose. She still had no right to be rude. Patience only goes so far.
"No one else in the store is going to tell you anything different. Our job in this department is simply to tell you how to use the machine. That's all we do. We spend no more than two to three minutes with a customer on the floor, unless time permits. And I have a line." I pointed to the machine, and positioned one page on the glass. "That's where you need to place the page. All you do after that is press the green button. It will make you a copy. Let me know if you need anything else."
"Where do you think you're going?" She said. "I still need help! I don't need that kind of attitude."
I turned on my heel and faced her yet again. My patience finally ended. "You think that's a fucking attitude, bitch?" I grabbed her by her yellow blonde hair, and slammed her nasty face into the glass of the copy machine, pushing the green button with my left hand. The light in the machine pushed itself against her head over and over again, making a sort of high pitched whine. I was breathing way too fast, and the store was silent.
"This," I said, "Is self-serve."