As a retail food manager I soon discovered that the absolute worst job in the business was not unloading trucks at night, tackling shop-lifers on the parking lot, having policy discussions with my insane rich-girl bosses or even wiping feces off of the men’s room ceiling, it was working behind The Courtesy Counter. In retail food, most of your men work unseen, cutting meat in the meat room, trimming produce on the prep area, stocking shelves at night. But the women are all on display behind various service counters, with the courtesy counter, where customers come with complaints, becoming something between a cage where sadistic people poke an animal and a carnival water tank where the customers try to sink the person trapped behind the counter. As a manger, the only rule that works is that you always back that courtesy clerk—a woman, either being threatened by black women or being harassed by men of all colors or scolded by evil old white hags—one hundred and ten percent. After six months on the job, I had bounced over 30 men out of that store—including taking a walker from a 90-year-old pervert and walking him out by the arm and had successfully seduced all of the black women with my white devil peepers into believing that they were the apple of my eye, not the ‘pretty young bitch” behind the counter, but so long as they treated this valuable employee with respect I could take care of their problem. Unfortunately, as I discovered when I met Lili’s employer and found out he couldn’t meet my gaze or shake my hand and that he was a beauty contest winner from an Asian nation, that she would not have a white daddy figure there to put the various negroes, slope heads, towel heads, dot heads, hos and yos in line. As a civilized woman working in a deteriorating third-world type economy, Lili recently suffered an ordeal, that only occurred, in my estimation, because the older white man she once worked with has retired. Followers of her column might have noted few posts over the past months. This is because the levity of the workplace she once enjoyed so much was facilitated almost entirely by the presence of a cagey old white guy on the job, imposing civility via a behavioral standard absent in many populations and work places.
Throughout Lili’s narrative, I will place in italics my behavioral deductions as I did in her debriefing after what transpired below.
My Hunnishness gets the best of me one day at the garage in the following interchange.
My boss is busy with others, so trying to be helpful and triage, I ask an African man, “How can we help you?”
“You can give me some food.”
“I don’t have any food today. I’m not eating, only drinking.”
He asks again.
“No, I have none.”
“Please…” (Makes big pitiful eyes of want and hunger.)
Feral negro trying to gain purchase in white woman’s emotional wheelhouse.
“NO.” (Both hands make stop gesture forcefully.)
He has loomed closer, imperceptibly. Lili intuited this, as evidenced by her spontaneous warding gesture, but had not consciously noted his increased proximity. If she’s the barmaid at the bar a half block up the street, this is when Big Ron grabs the guy and gives him a chance to keep his teeth.
(Folds arms onto counter top, head almost resting on arms, continues to stare at me for minutes after.)
I have been next to an African man who was doing this to an indigenous black woman at a bus stop and was prepared to stab him if he touched her. This is a very basic, low IQ intimidation tactic. Bouncers and cops are trained to recognize this as assault. In a bar setting, the regulars are already pounding this guy’s face against the bar top. In a retail food setting, the manager is already placing himself chest-to-chest and nodding at the parcel pickup kid to get “Hoss” out of the meat room.
Seething…
After the boss is free, I rat him out indignantly:
“This man asked me for food. Twice.”
Boss: “We have no food here. You want food, go to restaurant. We have oil, only.” (Laughs.)
Boss goes away, but for all intents and purposes, inwardly, I have lost it. I don’t remember the last time I was this angry in public in more recent times, but it can/does happen periodically. I’m like a Tasmanian devil when cornered and pushed. I may put up with something for a while, but then I lose my fear completely and cease to be rational. Even as a kid, I had school yard fights, one per year, for three years in a row, with dindus, even a big, fat boy a bit older than me, totally sick of how they treated people. I wish this weren’t so for me, because it drains me completely. Better that I should keep calm and firm, huh?
Well, there’s a thought…
This could have been the end of it, but the guy continues the drama by talking about me to his compatriot in English so I can understand, rudely, nastily, trying to make me out to be the bad guy. You know, that African/Black shaming technique of talking about you viciously within your hearing distance. His buddy laughs and smiles throughout. Goes on for minutes, don’t know how many.
If the other blacks present do not immediately make fun of the spurned aggressor he will try to build support for group sanctioned aggression. The only way to stop this is to have a man walk him down and crowd him out. I always went left shoulder to right shoulder here, snarling in the face while I had my checking hand ready to pin his hand to hip or dunk his right shoulder. Feminine solutions cannot work once he has begun building moral support. I have seen rednecks also do this to white women—like I said, a collective, low IQ answer for the idiot, regardless of race, but since the blacks have so many more stupid men, you see this more often from them.
I confront him, that his story is not what happened. He goes on twisting the story, denying it, saying he has money in his pocket, and do I know how much money he makes per hour?
I don’t ask.
He says that he was just joking. That I took it wrong. I just raise my voice, correcting the BS he now alleges happened, forcing my angry truth into the air.
Doing this as a man, is always stupid. But, doing this as a woman is why they were designed as chatterboxes, to draw the attention of men who might help. Is the limp-wristed Asian boss up to the task? Let’s find out.
He gestures to a BT-900 waiting for service. Gets her involved. Asks her opinion. She says that everyone has the right to beg, from whomever they want, wherever they want.
I don’t respond to her except by looking at her. Then I turn my attention back to the guy, “You think just because I’m white, I’m rich.”
They seem shocked that I voiced the color question. BT-900 starts in, “Oh, ever since Trump got in, you white people think…”
…Whatever she said, she ends it soon. I’ve tuned her out, give her no recognition. I say to the guy, “I make $10 per hour here. That’s it!”
BT voices her opinion, “That don’t mean you can’t give someone $2.00.”
My eyes must be shooting daggers. “Not if I need it!”
Unable to take any more of the slickly woven counter stories, I yell “That’s not what happened; you’re lying. I’m not an idiot.”
I shock him and his buddy into silence with my furious insistence.
Then all of a sudden my boss comes back in, due to the yelling, asks what’s happening.
Limp wrist to the pseudo rescue.
I say, “This man’s been talking badly about me and lying. He’s harassing me.”
The BT raises her voice into the conversation.
The negro pack instinct is strong. This illustrates the peril of verbalizing with aggressive blacks. They are beginning to form a chimp-swarm.
At about the same time, my boss says to her, “Why are you in this?”
I say, “This is between him and me.”
She has to be the center of attention, and explains repeatedly to my boss, “She’s in her emotions.”
This was Mister Mobuto’s entire goal, to make a white woman upset and insecure. I have seen two recent black immigrants of the lower classes lately who have darted around me and avoid me like radioactive waste as they home in on white women to beg, in a very intimidating, in-your-face fashion. Simply by me staring at them they lose their nerve and back off. The word is out that whites are weak and white women are ripe for victimization. Lili has found herself at the cusp of a trend that is just now rising in Baltimore. Our mutual friend, Mobi, a Nigerian engineer working as a sedan driver, has warned her that he is not a typical Nigerian, and that many Nigerians are rude, a rudeness enabled by permissive American failure to punish aggression.
I turn away, thinking for a moment that I can get back to my work. The idiot is now talking with his buddy about something else, in English. I spit these words out: “Talk to each other in Nigerian. You speak the same language.” (I know that isn’t the name of their language; it’s just what comes out.)
They look at me, as surprised as when I yelled about the lying. The BT is still repetitively mouthing off. I am so furious, that I can’t be there a moment longer. I say to my boss, “I’m done.” Shoving papers and folders together, throw them willy-nilly into the top tray, repeating myself two more times, as he looks on in surprise, “I’m done…..I’m DONE!” And then I’m gone, thinking to myself that I have to watch myself carefully in the car, because I’m so upset, and they’re so not worth an accident. I didn’t invite such people into my life, but my boss’s clientele sucks: Nigerians from the mouthy tribes (though some tribes/individuals are o.k.), arguing over $5. They’re pushy, obnoxious, manipulative, lying, hyper-haggling, relentless, rude, highly selfish, some obviously lazy—all the things I was taught not to be and punished for such infractions.
Then there’s the tribe of Southeast Asians related to or friends with my boss, coming in to hang out even behind the counter, all weighing in and into each other’s business, looking over shoulders at screens and glancing at work, etc. I made up a joke about them. “How many Xs does it take to change a light bulb? Every single one of them in the room!”
There are also the dindus who like to buy their own auto supplies and just have the garage charge them for labor. Or the ones who come in for a diagnosis without having the repair done. My boss knows that they will then take their car to some street mechanic for fixing, so he always charges them a lift fee. And they’re always renting trucks to move. Even last Christmas. It’s ridiculous. Their social skills vary, mostly not so great unless they're older.
The Hispanics are good—I almost forgot about them, because they're courteous, respectful, and appreciative of my help. I've not ever seen one put on the show that the dindus and Nigerians tend to make more readily, no matter which Hispanic country they have come from. A Hispanic mother and grown daughter came in. They were waiting for the Nigerian car inspector to show up for their appointment. He’s typically unconcerned about making people wait, unconcerned about people, period. The daughter speaks to my boss, finding out what the situation is. The mother has not understood the English. In Spanish, the mother asks the daughter, “Is he sick?” The daughter replies, “No, he’s dark.” (Means black here.) The mother pauses for a moment with a wry smile on her face, “Well there’s the problem right there.” The three of us laugh raucously.
I miss my old palefaced buddy, E. It was more fun with him. More innuendo, more laughter. Now I end up seemingly invisible, as the Southeast Asians talk loudly to each other, simply because I don’t share their language. Sometimes it’s a relief, and sometimes I resent it, along with the micromanaging that seems to be a part of the culture, to varying degrees, based on the person. But it’s way more prevalent than we Westerners can handle gracefully all the time, and sometimes my voice hardens into the “back off” tone, which they recognize as the rattle of the snake before it bites. Don’t get me wrong. I contain myself way more than they realize, put up with a lot of staring over my shoulder, but prefer to stay silent as much as possible. The silence is fine, but the rest of it makes the job harder, and with such clientele.
That is why there haven’t been any garage stories in a long while. Without E., I just don’t have anyone to bounce against in conversation, enjoyable dialog, etc. If I have another occurrence like this, I may, as they say in Hungarian, “be hit by an apoplectic stroke,” so I’m hoping this will be the last Lili’s Garage story, for my sake.
On the ground, Lili did white women she does not even know a favor for standing up to the feral African and the unsavory wench. Based on the sissy emotiveness and merchant mindset of her boss, I think she was well served in flying into feminine flames, since she was in her workplace and not on the street. When in public places she needs to keep her mouth shut in such situations. Since the employer is just a shekel-grubber, he needed a wakeup call on what is going to happen to his white staff when his back is turned. I have seen people from his culture adapt to this at a food business two blocks away, where a father and four sons form a phalanx behind the pizza counter and face off against gangs of thugs who come in there to loiter and beg, dance and rap, driving off the white customers. When Lili and I went in they treated us like king and queen and glared at the blacks. I stood over a stool between her and them. A couple of hoodrats eyed the stool for a seat but did not ask. Lili asked me later, why I didn’t offer the stool. I told her: “One, it’s a weapon, two, I have to be sternly rude and possessive to set the tone or I’d have to knock their heads in with that stool, and they’re the martyr race. I’d be in court for the rest of my life.”
So, Lili, while your boss is not a man by my definition, you can appeal to his merchant mentality, which understands demands in the context of a reciprocal relationship. You need to demand of him protection from harassment. He knows you’ll walk. I suggest, that you never use submissive courtesy service terminology like, “Can I? or may I?” You are good with language. So, rather than try to craft a different greeting for each of the various types of customers—which will be very stressful and is largely why I quite management—you should come up with a standard greeting that is not submissive but information-based like, “Hello, tags, title or rental?”
Never, ever speak to a person who has been rude to you. Just point to your boss. That’s what my courtesy girls did. Of course, they were mouthy black girls, so would spice it, with something brassy like, “You can take your rude self to The Man there—next!” But you are a member of the evil white race, so must realize that you are living in a socially predetermined state of guilt and remain quiet, lest your words be twisted upon the forked and serpentine tongues of the nefarious folk of the lower orders.
Waking Up in Indian Country: Harm City: 2015
When Your Job Sucks
link › jameslafond.blogspot.com
Micromanagement is the way of our distant Аrуаn cousins, along with shirking from confrontation, except to engage in hair splitting argumentation. I did not want to say so when you were in the honeymoon phase there.
"...Never, ever speak to a person who has been rude to you..."
This immediately made me flash back to something in my past that's similar. In basic training you guard a dorm room. Stand at the door and don't let anyone in that doesn't have the proper ID. It's stupid but a simple way to drill following instructions into people. People screw this up because they don't follow instructions. What you say is right above the door written down. Frequently they show you some bogus ID and if you let them in you're in big trouble. I had this happen to me where he would flash the ID with not nearly enough time for me to check it against the ID picture on the wall. I just read the damn script above the door while he raised hell and kicked the door. "Sir. I must refer you to the orderly room". The door was locked and he could kick it all he wanted. Same principle as "see the manager".