Indifference is power. Try explaining that to the customers and managers who believe that employees give a happy goddamn. Do the remnants of my failing store's clientele realize that I live off of less than $7 an hour? The service industry attempts to slave-drive its' workforce into being devoted and concerned. Corporate uses training videos and harrassment in lieu of a reasonable pay scale or a positive work environment. Concern for customers is largely outgrown by service workers within weeks to months of entering the business. From the store director who said that mine is "a service job" to blithering fools who think I'm listening, they all want an undeserved piece of my dead rat's ass.

"I don't understand why you would do that," a slow-witted bitch told me this summer as I returned to my register after doing a price check for her order. She was incredulous because I didn't return with the item that was actually on sale, thereby saving her the trouble. I had briefly considered doing this, but it seemed entirely pointless. Quite simply, madam, I don't give a free-falling spew of bird shit about your petty satisfaction or your pedestrian frozen waffles and doing the price check myself was courtesy enough. I'm not lazy--concern must be tempered with logic.

Customers say the damndest things. "You guys don't have what I need." That's nice. "Y'all just lost a sale because you do not have enough help here." This means what to me? "You must go home and drink, 'cause I don't know how you deal with this." Right on. If you vow to never shop here again, please keep your word and have a nice life. Giving 110 percent is an off the clock extravagance; or 26 percent for that matter.

When a boss expects me to bother delivering friendly service or the revered customer thinks I should go the extra mile, I'm reminded of a few facts. I walked to work in tattered shoes. My last paycheck was a disgrace. Hours have been cut. I've not actually received a raise from this company during 14 months of service.

Money is a powerful factor in workers' attitudes, but is human nature the overriding factor? "I don't care if I ever spend another dollar at Wal-Mart. I hate those people there. They have no customer service," a customer told me this week. At Wal-Mart, a cashier with my experience can make about $1.75 more per hour than I do and snag decent hours, according to a man employed by that company. Come to think of it, those cash-flooded punks never pretended to offer me assistance unless I was suspected of shoplifting.

Like a duped kamikaze, I dove into the service industry at age 17. I was cashiering for the busiest and most shorthanded retail establishment I've encountered. The customers were degrading asswipes of legend while the work was rife with pressure and misery. This job was a formative experience. Even as I took home overtime pay, I loathed customers with a militant fervor, as did my coworkers. It took two months of 43 hour weeks to get me that way. Disgruntled frustration gives rise to sheer apathy. How could we care? Wal-Mart is infinitely busier than my current store, and incidents with customers are more prevalent.

Aside from freak shows, customers are virtually faceless order numbers. A feature of customer syndrome is the sufferer's belief that they are special. Customers see a bitch badge on a polo shirt and assume that we were born to smile and take orders. Cashiers see another order on the screen or another item on the conveyor. My greatest wish is that the voice behind the order will refrain from causing annoyance. Beyond that, I'm focused on my next smoke break, lunch or clocking out.

The opportunity to provide great customer service to yet another in an eternally endless stream of irritants is surely a joyous occasion. I'd better ensure that this pork is speedily returned to its' cooler--any loss to the company is tragic at best.

Gung-ho managers: the deluded leading the pragmatic. The assistant manager at my old Jack in the Box is a colorful example. "You have no respect for the job," he would shout at us. I was scarcely making enough to eat once daily. One night after cleaning a restroom, he slapped 35 cents beside my register. "That's Jack's money," he said of the quarter and dime recovered from the men's room floor. I pocketed the coins with an astonished snicker.

This shell of a man was pathological about being a corporate tool. He knew no shame when it came time to whore for a customer. Dignity forgotten, he took all varieties of abuse like a lost, beaten down submission whore. We despised the guy, but had to pity him. Inexplicably, he expected of us the same seig hiel devotion that he gave to the corporate machine. "Willingness to bend over for the general public and sell your soul to a plastic-headed Pol Pot" was not a job requirement listed on the paperwork I signed. For all his psychotic admonishments, we were possibly the most indifferent night crew I've worked with. The insanity and degradation dished out by customers along with meager paychecks screamed louder than managerial mantras. The quality of a crew's work is reflective of their working environment.

"You have a serious problem in the meat department," some customer told a cashier this week. How in sweet Hell is paid-for spoiled chicken a cashier's problem? Grapple this concept; not my department, not my concern. The bitch mill whines to front end of issues in every department from drug to floral. Rotten produce, broken eggs, an inept worker in butcher block, items past expiration date, etcetera. None of which is germane to me getting through another shift. Oddly enough, they believe that I'll grab the Creutzfeldt-Jakob bull by the horns and fix the percieved problem. Crises of this magnitude demand swift, unilateral action. I for one will abandon my station for a leisurely smoke break.

Give us a reason to care. Nevertheless, those who care are not rewarded, they are exploited. I try to make the days go by smoothly--disregarding customers whenever feasible.