Tweet
The scene - KFC. November. The temperature outside - 55 degrees. (13 if you're in Europe.) Old building, old circulation system. Old goat.
Old Goat comes in. Well, I imagine he came in; I wasn't paying attention to that bit. For all I know, the floor opened up and he crawled from the sulfuric depths of Hell. Like most nasty customers, he only appeared within my notice, let alone my contempt, when he started yelling.
Top of his lungs, about how "it's FREEZING in here!" Now, it may well have been; I hadn't shed my jacket, but my hands weren't cold and I didn't really care. Up to the counter to yell at them to turn up the heat. Except the thermostat on the wall says that it's 74 degrees. (24. You know the drill.)
"I was here all last week and every day it was freezing in here!" he rages. Now, this is a man somewhere between 90 and 200 years old and thin as two sticks. He looks like his part-time post-retirement job involves scaring away crows from a pumpkin patch. Two or three times, he rants at the poor, cowed employees huddled behind the counter that "It's FREEZING in here!" and the employees are forced to insist yet again that they can't crank up the heat any more than they already have. Why he doesn't just leave is a question for the ages; why he keeps coming back indicates that his logic isn't the same as our Earth logic.
"Guy over here, he says it's freezing, too!" shouts the Cranky Old Goat, gesturing towards the wing where I'm enjoying my lunch. (Mm potatoes.) Now, at the time, I thought he was indicating someone else in the same wing, perhaps seated behind me and also suffering an attack of the stupids. This forum being what it is, I probably don't have to fill in that particular blank. If you have a beef with the management, you do NOT draw me into it. I will make my own complaints. If I have no complaints, I will not commiserate with you just because your sensibilities are offended.
The staff made a couple of game attempts to turn the heat up, but as soon as the thermostat reached its incremental new temperature and switched off, the old goat would again start howling, "It's FREEZING in here!" and storm up to the counter like his own little weather system, scattering staff in his wake. I want to reiterate that it wasn't even that cold OUTSIDE; the idea that the interior of a fried-chicken restaurant would even be capable of sinking to nipple-stiffening depths is unheard of. And now that I've made you think of an elderly man's nipples, I'll continue.
I decided I'd had enough of Col. Sander's Grandpa and his extended temper tantrum. I did happen to glimpse out of the corner of my eye that he was wearing an iPod. Not a hearing aid, an iPod. That, I suppose, explained the volume. I went to dump my tray, four feet from the table, leaving my backpack and iPhone within sight at the booth.
"Hey. HEY! You forgot something." I threw the "ignore" switch, but he was determined to override it. "HEY! YOU FORGOT SOMETHING!" I swear, the windows rattled. I shot him A Look (copyright [c] Ben_Who Is Pissed Off Productions, all rights reserved, prohibited in Nebraska), went back to the table, picked up the backpack and iPhone, and headed for the door.
The trembling counter staff emerged from their hiding places to ask if it was cold or comfortable in that part of the restaurant. I looked at the two-thousand year old man, turned to the staff, and said, "Ignore him. He's a cranky old goat."
The parts of the staff will now be understudied by the Smiley Players:
I left, feeling that there's nothing worse than a customer who feels that his longetivity entitles him to have his ass kissed. Should I be fortunate enough to enjoy a healthy old age (and it's a-comin', make no mistake) I hope I don't squander it by ignoring basic respect.
Love, Who?
Old Goat comes in. Well, I imagine he came in; I wasn't paying attention to that bit. For all I know, the floor opened up and he crawled from the sulfuric depths of Hell. Like most nasty customers, he only appeared within my notice, let alone my contempt, when he started yelling.
Top of his lungs, about how "it's FREEZING in here!" Now, it may well have been; I hadn't shed my jacket, but my hands weren't cold and I didn't really care. Up to the counter to yell at them to turn up the heat. Except the thermostat on the wall says that it's 74 degrees. (24. You know the drill.)
"I was here all last week and every day it was freezing in here!" he rages. Now, this is a man somewhere between 90 and 200 years old and thin as two sticks. He looks like his part-time post-retirement job involves scaring away crows from a pumpkin patch. Two or three times, he rants at the poor, cowed employees huddled behind the counter that "It's FREEZING in here!" and the employees are forced to insist yet again that they can't crank up the heat any more than they already have. Why he doesn't just leave is a question for the ages; why he keeps coming back indicates that his logic isn't the same as our Earth logic.
"Guy over here, he says it's freezing, too!" shouts the Cranky Old Goat, gesturing towards the wing where I'm enjoying my lunch. (Mm potatoes.) Now, at the time, I thought he was indicating someone else in the same wing, perhaps seated behind me and also suffering an attack of the stupids. This forum being what it is, I probably don't have to fill in that particular blank. If you have a beef with the management, you do NOT draw me into it. I will make my own complaints. If I have no complaints, I will not commiserate with you just because your sensibilities are offended.
The staff made a couple of game attempts to turn the heat up, but as soon as the thermostat reached its incremental new temperature and switched off, the old goat would again start howling, "It's FREEZING in here!" and storm up to the counter like his own little weather system, scattering staff in his wake. I want to reiterate that it wasn't even that cold OUTSIDE; the idea that the interior of a fried-chicken restaurant would even be capable of sinking to nipple-stiffening depths is unheard of. And now that I've made you think of an elderly man's nipples, I'll continue.
I decided I'd had enough of Col. Sander's Grandpa and his extended temper tantrum. I did happen to glimpse out of the corner of my eye that he was wearing an iPod. Not a hearing aid, an iPod. That, I suppose, explained the volume. I went to dump my tray, four feet from the table, leaving my backpack and iPhone within sight at the booth.
"Hey. HEY! You forgot something." I threw the "ignore" switch, but he was determined to override it. "HEY! YOU FORGOT SOMETHING!" I swear, the windows rattled. I shot him A Look (copyright [c] Ben_Who Is Pissed Off Productions, all rights reserved, prohibited in Nebraska), went back to the table, picked up the backpack and iPhone, and headed for the door.
The trembling counter staff emerged from their hiding places to ask if it was cold or comfortable in that part of the restaurant. I looked at the two-thousand year old man, turned to the staff, and said, "Ignore him. He's a cranky old goat."
The parts of the staff will now be understudied by the Smiley Players:
I left, feeling that there's nothing worse than a customer who feels that his longetivity entitles him to have his ass kissed. Should I be fortunate enough to enjoy a healthy old age (and it's a-comin', make no mistake) I hope I don't squander it by ignoring basic respect.
Love, Who?
Comment