Brief account of happenings at quaint Westerville, OH Donut shop.
This is the first thing I wrote, and I did it after registering here today. I figured I need to get something up.
I decided long ago to boycott our hometown bakery, because of the sheer rudeness I have encountered there before. They have nothing to offer in the way of good prices or customer service, so why go there instead of Dunkin Donuts, Jolly Pirate, Krispy Kream, Tim Hortons, or any other larger corporate bakery? I will say this, which makes it all the more disappointing; they have better tasting baked goods than any of those places on their finest day. That alone is not reason enough to endure the mistreatment they expend. The primary reason I originally vowed not to go there, awhile back, they have a special they offer for one donut and a half pint of milk. I was picking up two special request coffee cakes for my mom, and was just getting the donut and milk to eat at that time. I wanted a larger milk, and asked if I could get the special and pay the difference to acquire the quart of milk, rather than the half pint. That seemed adequately fair to me. The woman would have nothing to do with such an idea, and worse than just that denial was the way she went about it. I will not go into detail, but it seemed ridiculous, considering the frequency in which I patronized their establishment. I would not return I decided.
That was over a year ago. Yesterday, a friend of mine came into Westerville, from OSU campus, where he lives, and met me at the News Paper Depot, where we parked. It was about midnight, and we left the lot on bike. We rode around town, for a few hours, and we were at Meijers around 2:30 a.m. That is when Steven commented:
“We should go to Schneider’s on the way back”
It used to be a place many of us would go late night, because they open at 3 a.m. That was when we were younger, though I am not old now, I am 23, and times have changed. I expressed how dissatisfied I had been last time I went. As it was on the way, and he is not in Westerville everyday, he still wanted to go, so reluctantly I agreed. That is where this story truly begins.
We parked our bikes, and strolled into the shop casually, and immediately were enveloped by the sweet smell of this mornings fresh-baked goodies. There was no one at the counter, because they were doing their duties in the kitchen, so we patiently waited for someone to come up front. Less than 2 minutes had passed before she came up, so the wait was not absurdly long, by any means. “She” being part Satan’s minion, part donut shop employee.
“Can I help you?” She says very shrill with an almost sarcastic sneer across her rigid face. This woman stood about 5’2” with hair shorter than most men’s, and a face straight from the circus. I mean to say, she is somewhat hideous like a sideshow freak, and at the same time, applies her make up like that of a circus clown. In more ways than one, she fits the bill for a Barnum and bailey act. This might explain her insanely bitter attitude. If Steven had not believed me before, he was sure to by the end of this experience.
Steven replied “Yes, how much is a dozen donuts?”
“1.25 (or something along those lines) for these holes” She said.
You have to understand how patient and diplomatic Steven is, to truly appreciate how unacceptably impolite this woman was, and just plain lousy as a person or employee.
“Oh, no sorry, I meant how much for a dozen regular donuts” Steven said apologetically, even though he had not mis-spoke the first time.
“Six dollars!” She said “Is that what you want?”
“Yes” He said, as an eager smile crossed his face, for he really wanted to eat these donuts. Right before we entered the bakery I remember him saying how excited he was. I laughed at him, they are just donuts.
As she went to get the box, Steven saw it, and realized there is no way that would fit in his book bag. I told him to just have her put them into two bags. “Excuse me, can I get those in bags instead” Steven said somewhat meekly. She of course did not hear him. He repeated it at a more audible level, and still she either chose not to listen, or failed to hear.
“Ma'am” I said loudly. She looked over, and he again requested bags instead of a box. She looked at him for a couple seconds, with a bewildered look on her face. It almost said why on earth do you want that, and at the same time, why on earth should I do that for you?
“He is on a bike” I said to her; she put the box back and grabbed a bag.
“What kind?” She asked.
I would have ordered one or two of all different kinds, but Steven is a much simpler customer. “Can I have six of these and six glazed?” he asked, as he pointed at the kind with chocolate frosting on top.
“Is that all?” She asked, and to me it sounded as if she was frustrated, though there was absolutely no reason to be.
“Well, can I have a milk too?” He asked, “White.”
“What size?” she inquired as she pointed to the sign.
70 cents for a half pint.
$1.40 for the quart.
He thought momentarily and decided on the quart.
As she walked down a hall to the right, toward their refrigerators, I asked, “Can I have a small white and small chocolate too” I figured I would save her two trips. She turned around and beamed at me, and I saw beneath her charcoal pupils. She, for whatever reason, is a sack of flesh containing no human soul. She glared at me for less than a second, and grabbed the milks as requested. She returned to the counter and sat the milks down.
“That milk is huge” Steven said to me, commenting on the size of his milk in comparison to my milks.
“You people don’t know the difference between a quart and a half pint” She said angrily “Do you want a smaller one” She asked with a certain tone, as if she was so incredibly put out.
“No, this is fine” Steven said, again being diplomatic for whatever reason, though I felt the need to smack-a-ho.
“My roommates should be happy” Steven turned around and said to me, talking about bringing the donuts to his house on campus where he lives with several other people.
“OK!” She said sharply, gathering our attention “Let me figure out this total” she belted. As if it was somehow complicated, or it was something she should not have to do. It seems she is angry to even have to serve us. I just could not and cannot still, understand it. It is in fact not complicated. 6.00 plus 1.40 , Ching. Steven paid, and she turned her attention to me. “What do you want to eat.” She asked me uninvitingly.
“Nothing, just the milks” I replied, in still a calm and pleasant voice.
“1.40” She snapped, as if now she was angry I was not buying more. I sat two dollars down on the counter, said thank you, turned and walked out.
“OK!” She said. Probably somewhat astonished I was not waiting for my change. She knew she certainly had not earned a tip. While the door was slowly closing, I could hear her say something about us to someone else that had walked in. Icing on the cake, so to speak, there is no way I am ever going into that place again. They simply do not deserve me as a customer, nor do they deserve anyone else, with that brand of behind the counter antics.
We sat out front and enjoyed a donut as we made fun of her and discussed the events that had occurred in those previous five minutes.
I wonder if she knows how she comes off? I wonder if she cares. I wonder what has happened to her in life to make her that way. I wonder why someone would employ something like that to work behind a counter and deal with customers. Well, ex-customers I should say in our case.
Note to those gracious enough to review:
(By suggestion from and in response to review from VerySara )
Thankyou for taking the time to
> review it, and offering not only your kind words, but honest advice. I
> sincerely hope you do not view my following explanation as an excuse, but it
> is quite possible you may. The only reason this story is written in the
> style it is (not too much "depth" or "emotion"), really is because it is not a
> story I was writing. It is my attempt at a precise accounting of that
> I wanted to be completely honest and accurate, without feeling the need to
> add spice to it. I really did not want people to think it was a story.
> The only reason I put it under the categories I did, was because I feel it
> "tragic" we have people like this in America in customer service jobs. I
> think going to the shop and dealing with her is incredibly "horrific", and
> the thought of dealing with that again is "scary". It truley is an
> "experience" I hope you never have to go through.