Customer service is reserved for my customers!

I work at a brewery. We had a pickup truck that finally died yesterday. It was over twenty years old and has served us very well. We were sad to see it go. It is also worth noting that in the Before Times, we didn’t have a licence to sell alcohol to the general public, only pubs and other licensed establishments. If you were a member of the public, you were politely turned away and towards one of the shops we supply. We also have a sign-written van, which is bigger and a better advertising banner but obviously less fuel efficient for smaller runs. One of these vehicles, whether van or truck, was usually in the car park. The other was either out or in front of the brewery.

People of a “lesser repute” were always turning up at the brewery trying to buy the truck from us. We do a lot of deliveries to pubs in the middle of the countryside, surrounded by narrow country lanes. An old truck was a godsend, especially as you weren’t too bothered by yet another scratch from yet another bramble from the overgrown sides of the road. Maybe because it was running forever, maybe because it was a reliable workhorse, maybe because they wanted to take it stock-car driving for all I care. They wanted it and they wasted my time trying to buy it.

I am currently on my own at the brewery cleaning a fermenting vessel from the inside. My boss is out in the van doing the city centre deliveries. I hear someone enter the brewery and call out to greet them, although I don’t stop my work. Usually it’s a delivery driver or one of our regular publicans coming in to settle an invoice. This time it’s a stranger.

Man: Is that your pickup truck in the car park?

Me: It’s not for sale.

Man: I never said I wanted to buy it!

Me (thinking “So why mention the truck?”): How can I help?

Man: What’s wrong with it?

Me: Nothing’s wrong with it.

Man: You can tell me. It’s in the car park.

Me: Mate, there’s nothing wrong with it. My boss has taken the van today.

Man: What’s wrong with it?

Me: There’s nothing wrong with it. Turn up tomorrow and you’ll find the truck outside. We use it for country deliveries.

Man: There’s got to be something wrong with it. It’s in the car park, otherwise it would be outside.

Me (firmly, but holding my temper. Just.): There. Is. Nothing. Wrong. With. Our. Truck.

He turns to leave but cannot resist a little parting shot.

Man: You need to work on your customer service.

He turns and leaves. I finish the job at hand, quietly cursing the gods who inflicted the idiot upon me. My boss said that I was too polite. I reserve my customer service to my customers, not timewasting idiots.

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Honestly, after the “You can tell me” line, I was expecting to him either to admit that, after all, he does want to buy it from you (and since it’s a piece of junk (because there’s obviously something wrong with it), he’s doing you a favor paying even pennies for it), or to say he was a truck mechanic and could fix it for you, whatever its problem was.

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I was expecting the same.