After an hour listening to fully trained folk of my pay grade, it is my preliminary determination that this job is no more difficult or demanding than the one I did at General Mills. It is less interesting, by virtue of my answers to customers' questions never involving the phrase "not enough butter," but it didn't appear, even on a Monday (purportedly the busiest day of the week) to be anything beyond my capacities.
I nonetheless embrace my remaining 14 weeks of training, if only from a purely economic standpoint. If I'm not doing any real work for my pay, then it's a purer profit for me, even though doing actual work might make the days go faster.
I finally identified the source of my immediate affinity for our substitute trainer. He has a certain aloofness to the corporate culture that seemed familiar, but unplaceable. It turns out, he was a journalism major.
I used to say that if my lifetime of cordial indifference toward my fellow man is eventually punished by an eternity in hell, my own hell would be an endless drive through the suburbs with a full bladder and no place in sight to stop. After a customer care exercise last week, I've revised my theory. I would be in a warm, slightly humid room with nothing to eat or drink, seated by an infinite number of Barbs while a supervisor asks everyone in the room to give an example of a time they received poor customer service. My soul would then be shredded away, century after century by rambling, poorly articulated stories filled petty bitching and baseless feelings of inscrutable entitlement.
It's bizarre to me that I've always excelled in customer service jobs, despite my own ideal consumer experience being one that is as cold, impersonal and efficient as possible. Unless the transaction involves bourbon or pancakes; then it's okay to call me "hun."
I forgot to bring any lunch, and I can't commit to the slippery slope of signing up for an automatic payroll deduction account at the Eatery.
No comments:
Post a Comment