![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
chaobellMy back has been killing me all day.
On the way home from work--Stepdad came to collect me, because not only did my back hurt, it was cold and raining--we stopped at Walgreen's so I could buy drugs.
I got up to the counter with a neat, tidy roll of quarters in hand. Those were in my pocket; the rest of my money was in my wallet, in my purse, in my backpack, in the truck, which I didn't realize until I got to the register, and I didn't feel like going out and getting the folding money, as I had ten perfectly good bucks in hand. Or so I thought.
The teenybopper at the register picked it up between thumb and forefinger and looked at me like I was trying to pay with beads and wolf teeth. "What is this!?" she whined.
"...a roll of quarters?"
Tsk, hairflip. "We don't take those. They have to be rolled a certain way."
I blinked. "It's American money. It's rolled. I don't see why."
Tsk, glare. "Can't you just take the five dollars out of the roll?"
Oh, fuck it. Ripped roll open, counted out five dollars, went home with five dollars in loose quarters in my pocket.
Called manager when I got home. Manager declared the whole fiasco "nonsense" and went right off to have a word with the dipshit.
Now, if she'd just said, "I'm sorry, but we can't accept rolled coins," in a pleasant and civil tone, hey, I would have been fine with that. It was the attitude that got me.
Guess how I'm going to pay for my shit next time I go in and see her at the counter?
On the way home from work--Stepdad came to collect me, because not only did my back hurt, it was cold and raining--we stopped at Walgreen's so I could buy drugs.
I got up to the counter with a neat, tidy roll of quarters in hand. Those were in my pocket; the rest of my money was in my wallet, in my purse, in my backpack, in the truck, which I didn't realize until I got to the register, and I didn't feel like going out and getting the folding money, as I had ten perfectly good bucks in hand. Or so I thought.
The teenybopper at the register picked it up between thumb and forefinger and looked at me like I was trying to pay with beads and wolf teeth. "What is this!?" she whined.
"...a roll of quarters?"
Tsk, hairflip. "We don't take those. They have to be rolled a certain way."
I blinked. "It's American money. It's rolled. I don't see why."
Tsk, glare. "Can't you just take the five dollars out of the roll?"
Oh, fuck it. Ripped roll open, counted out five dollars, went home with five dollars in loose quarters in my pocket.
Called manager when I got home. Manager declared the whole fiasco "nonsense" and went right off to have a word with the dipshit.
Now, if she'd just said, "I'm sorry, but we can't accept rolled coins," in a pleasant and civil tone, hey, I would have been fine with that. It was the attitude that got me.
Guess how I'm going to pay for my shit next time I go in and see her at the counter?
