Dear 7-Eleven Gas Station Attendent,
You might not remember me. Earlier this evening, I came into your fine establishment to purchase a drink. After much debate, I settled on a Big Gulp, realizing I was far too thirsty for a single Gulp, but definitely not thirsty enough for a Double Gulp.
As I walked towards the cash register, you were kind enough to acknowledge my presence. I think everyone agrees that is good customer service. I would have been very annoyed if you had ignored me and pretended to read the warning label off a can of chewing tobacco while I waited to pay. I applaud your effort. The way you performed this customer service, though, was a bit off-putting.
“You ready to go, Chief?”
Now at first, I assumed this was an isolated incident. I was ready to ignore it, give you my money, take my moderately sized drink and be on my way. I walked up to the cash register.
“Anything else you want, Chief?”
Now I was getting confused. I had never been called “Chief” in my life, so hearing this twice inside of a minute was something I was very unfamiliar with. I’ll admit I was very taken aback. Still, I managed to get my money out and pay you.
“Have a good night, Chief.”
I walked out the door, completely perplexed. Why did you insist on calling me “Chief?” What there something incredibly chiefly of me?
That’s when it occurred to me. It must have been my fault.
I want to apologize to you, good sir. It seems that at some point throughout our two-minute long relationship, I had given you the impression that I was the chief of something. Let me just clear things up for you.
I am not a chief. I am not a Chief Petty Officer, a Chief of police, a fire chief, an editor-in-chief, or a tribal chief. I am in no way a chief nor do I expect to become the chief of anything anytime soon. In short, your nickname was incredibly inaccurate.
While I have your attention, let’s narrow down the list of acceptable nicknames. I am not a sport, your pal, your buddy. We are not amigos or compadres.
Actually, now that I think about it, I’m not too crazy about any nickname. Not that I expect you to know my real name. That would be unreasonable of me. Maybe you should just skip addressing me altogether. Just ask me if I’m ready to check out and skip the pleasantries.
If you absolute must call me by some nickname, though, I would prefer “Mayhem,” “Killer,” or “Tipo Duro Loco.” You know, anything that makes me feel incredibly tough and manly. Either that, or “Silk.”
You know, because I’m super smooth, not because I’m made by worms. I’m sure you get it.