Do you like being talked to like you're a little child? I do. I just love it.
So, when the lady at Walmart chided me for trying to get product from a top shelf with no ladder, I felt wonderful. Please, I thought, reprimand me some more.
I considered giving her one of the spatulas from across the aisle so she could spank me too, but maybe that would have been misconstrued.
I put up with the abuse because, well, we really wanted the slow cooker that I had been climbing up to get. I learned my lesson from this experience. Never, ever, climb up on the shelves at the store because then you will get the safety lecture. So it was that, weeks later, my wife and I stood staring at the thirty-quart containers on the top shelf at Kmart, knowing that there was only one thing we could do: find an employee to help us. One walked by the end of the aisle and then ran away because she saw customers. My wife chased her down.
The lady told Sharron that she would get someone to help us and then paged them over the intercom. We stood in the aisle staring at the containers.
Ten minutes later we were still standing there, jaws agape, staring.
"Nobody's ever going to come help us," Sharron observed.
"I know," I said. I continued to stare. I had become transfixed by the tag under the stack that identified the containers as being on sale.
"I'll go get somebody," announced Sharron, and then she disappeared.
If I only I could climb on the shelves, I thought. If only...
I heard Sharron and the employee talking several aisles over. Several minutes later, the lady appeared with a ladder and helped us to get the containers. It occurred to me that this was my chance to get even with condescending store clerks around the world. I should talk to her like she's a three-year old! I don't know why I didn't. Heck, I even said "thank you" when she handed us the containers. What is wrong with me? Another opportunity missed.
At the register, my wife watched to make sure the sales price showed up.
Our life would not be the predictable sitcom that it is if the price had come up right. As if on cue, it didn't. The manager got involved and soon calls were being made to the back of the store. Someone was sent to check to see if the sales tag I had stared at for twenty minutes was really there. They reported that it wasn't. Apparently the whole thing had been a hallucination.
The implication was that I was either doing drugs in Kmart, or that my wife and I—as the Bonnie and Clyde of "Mart" store—had hatched some sort of elaborate plan to get a discount on plastic containers. Spurred into action, I went to the back of the store, climbed the shelves, got the sales tag, and brought it back to the manager. I don't believe I said a word the whole entire time.
To their credit, the manager and the clerk were very nice about giving us the refund. It totally blew my chance to talk down to them. Dang it! That's all I want; I just want to be mean to people who work at the store. Oh well, maybe next time. I'm sure I'll get another chance.