  Back in the late '90s I worked at the Union Square Borders bookstore in San Francisco. I have endless stories of customer insanity. This is the first of many. I dreaded working the cash registers more than anything. Not because operating the hopelessly outdated machines was difficult; I was in fact quite the virtuoso on the register keys--no one could ring faster than me--it was the people I hated. I was not user friendly in those days.
I hated everybody. Everybody, of course, except Michael and Ronnie. On the weekends, the afternoon lines would snake across the first floor. "Next," I would bark as I finished each transaction. Not "Next, please" or "Next customer" just "Next! " This generally unsettled the customer and gave me the upper hand in case they tried to get uppity.
I was like an executioner on a busy day at the chopping block, hurrying the next person in line on their way to his or her decapitation. So one Saturday in February, during our annual calendar sale, a woman appeared before me with a stack of calendars 5 inches high. There were signs everywhere in the store screaming "ALL CALENDARS $1! " The woman held up the first calendar in her stack and said, "This calendar doesn't have a price tag on it how much is it? " "All calendars are $1," I replied. "This one here, it's so big," she said, holding up a medieval manuscript-themed calendar, "it can't be only $1.
" "All calendars are $1. " "Well, this one's so small," she said, producing a tiny calendar decorated with angels, "this one can't be a dollar. " "All calendars are $1. " "The plastic on this one came off and there's some wear om the edges ..." "Every single calendar in that pile is $1. " That seemed to irritate her ever more. She pulled a book out of her basket and held it up at arm's length from me.
"How much is this book. " "I'm sorry, I don't the price of every book in the store. Why don't you look on the back. " She didn't like that at all, but I didn't care. If it had been up to me, I would have slapped her and chased her out the door with a can of Hag-Be-Gone. 
