One of my last calls of the night, (I use this lightly - I was in until 7, this call probably occurred around 5 - it was slow), was this woman looking for a lamp that we stopped making just about two years ago. This means that there is plenty of time for that shit to go out of stock, especially because we don’t necessarily make hundreds of our “larger” items.
She asked if there was any way I could find out if we had any left. I knew we didn’t, but I humored her because she had one of those voices. I was waiting for it. We don’t have any of those in any of our stores or warehouses, it has been two years. She got kind of indignant and asked why we stopped making them. I told her that I didn’t know, that often designers determine this based on demand, blah blah blah, I answered very well. This goes on in circles for a while and then she says
"I wonder, maybe I could talk to someone, you know, with their name on the sign, ha ha ha"
some of the most backhanded laughter I have ever heard. Shit’s beyond art school and beyond this fucking babying customer service gig. And I laughed right back at her, louder, said “okay, let me see,” and continued laughing more snidely and italicized and loudly than she, and she started to say something and I put her on hold mid-cackle and sent her to my supervisor who told her, essentially, the same thing.
Fuck you, Lynn. Shit is sticking with me. My name is on a couple of signs, but none as big as your asshole.