I wasn’t going to post today because I’m a little nervous about how my last post has taken on a life of its own in the comments section and, apparently, real life (read the comments to that post, it’s a weird old world out there), but I just had to post about this.
There’s a convenience store across the street from my apartment and, as I’m inordinately fond of both Red Bull and strawberry soda and have cravings for both at odd hours, the store plays a fairly regular part in my life. It’s run by a family, not just a bunch of random clerks, and they’ve gotten to know me somewhat over the years. They like to guess what I’m going to buy each time–is it Fanta? Is it Doritos? Why do I not weigh 300 pounds? Yeah, my doctor would like to know that one as well.
I went in there tonight pretty late, actually expecting that they might be closed at that point, but they were open. When I went in, two of the family were working and they were having what I’ll describe as an animated discussion–affectionate, but certainly lively. I don’t know what it was about, exactly, because it was in a different language. But as I walked in, they switched their argument into English for my benefit! Now that’s what I call customer service. You just don’t get that at 7-11. Well, actually, the clerks at 7-11 know me as well, but that’s a whole different story.