#this whole fucking situation is bullshit and their fucking 'customer service' can fucking choke and die

[robitherat]

Genuinely so fucking mad right now I think I could kill someone Jesus fuck.

[goldenraeofsun]

Good Ideas

1.5k of canon-divergence fluff, now on AO3!

Dean is almost finished with his standard gun cleaning (once a week whether they need it or not) when footsteps approach from outside his bedroom door. Heavier than Eileen but lighter than Sam - must be Cas. 

“What an awful day,” Cas sighs as he practically throws himself onto Dean’s prized memory foam mattress. He doesn’t even take his shoes off first, like an animal.

“Hello to you, babe,” Dean says, amused. He raises his head to fully look at Cas, now face planted into his pillow. Dean would like to say it’s unusual to see Cas this drained and frustrated after another shift at the Gas n Sip, but it’s become pretty much standard. And, because not-that-deep-down Dean’s a shitty person who lucked out and got a (fallen) angel to fall for him, he can’t entirely squash the pleased feeling in his gut that flares up every time Cas comes home to him, no matter the circumstances.

“Hello, Dean,” or that’s what Dean assumes Cas is saying, based on their past million and a half conversations over more than a decade.

Dean carefully sets down his colt and pads over to the bed. He takes a seat near Cas’s shins, the mattress slowly but surely dipping as it remembers Dean’s distinctive ass print. “What happened?”

“Humanity is stupid.”

Dean snorts. “Don’t have to tell me twice. What’d humanity do this time?”

Cas turns his head so he can glare balefully down at Dean with one brilliant blue eye. “Todd refilled the soda machine incorrectly. We had to reimburse ten customers who poured the wrong drinks despite the clear signs indicating the buttons were temporarily incorrect.”

“What a disaster,” Dean deadpans.

Cas groans a stream of indistinguishable words that might not even be English - knowing him, he’s probably insulting Todd’s mother ancient Aramaic or something - before he concludes, “It was a very uncomfortable situation. Todd is an imbecile.”

“Want me to kill him for you?” Dean asks casually.

Cas’s whole torso inflates with the depth of his sigh. “No,” he says, but the word is muffled and has zero conviction behind it.

“Come on,” Dean pokes Cas in the thigh. “You were the one who wanted this job in the first place. All the ‘human dignity’ you could choke down and all that crap.”

“I must’ve been mistaken.”

“Whatever you say, man,” Dean says, grinning as Cas rolls over so he’s lying normally on Dean’s bed. “Y’know, you could always do something else. Quit the Gas n Sip.”

“Like what?” Cas asks as he frowns up at the ceiling. “I don’t have much experience except in inventory management and customer service.”

“What about all your angel stuff?”

“I can hardly list ‘former Angel of the Lord’ on my resume,” Cas grumbles.

“You’ve got all those languages crammed in your brain, serious hand-to-hand skills - I could teach you all I know about cars, and you can add that.”

Cas gives a considering grunt.

“Look,” Dean says as he scoots further up the bed so he’s more aligned with Cas’s chest than his knees. “You were the one who was all gung-ho about getting a job to interact with normal people.”

“I needed a better baseline now I’m human because you and Sam are not ‘normal’ by any definition of the word,” Cas sniffs.

“Rude. Anyway, I told you to take things slow. So your first stab back at slumming it with regular folks isn’t going so great. Sometimes these things take a while to settle down,” Dean says, uncomfortably reminded of the time he had to comfort Sammy after three piano lessons didn’t turn him into the next Geoff Nicholls - or Elton John, as Dean had to amend after Sammy shot him a look of complete incomprehension.

“You don’t have to throw yourself into anything,” Dean adds gently to Cas. “We’ve got no big bad waiting out in the wings. It’s okay to take things one step at a time.”

“Because you provide such an excellent model of restraint and forethought,” Cas mutters.

Dean rolls his eyes. “Obviously. You don’t see me jumping back into Leave it to Beaver.”

“Because that’s not what you want,” Cas says, his eyes narrowing. “You said civilian life isn’t for you.”

Dean swallows. He pulls at a wrinkle in the sheets. “You so sure about that?”

Cas props himself up on his elbows, intrigued. “You’re truly considering retiring from hunting?”

Dean glances over at his guns, disassembled and gleaming on his desk. “I’ve been thinking about it. Sammy doesn’t go on many hunts anymore, says it’s more important to teach the next generation of fighters than handling everything by ourselves.”

“A wise thing to say, considering the limitations of the average human lifespan.”

“And you wonder why we never bring you to parties,” Dean says as Cas scowls in return, really only proving Dean’s point. “I’ve been looking into other stuff to do.”

“Like what?”

“Not sure,” he admits. “Sam’s got his Hunter Hogwarts thing going on - I could help Sam out, but the thought of reading and assignments makes me want to throw myself out a window.”

“You do like to be more hands-on,” Cas says diplomatically.

Dean sighs, wistful. “If the Roadhouse was still around, I would’ve kicked ass there. Talking with veterans in the business, passing along intel, throwing out the occasional brawler.”

Cas cocks his head. “Why don’t you rebuild one?”

“What?”

“Another Roadhouse,” Cas says like it’s obvious. “Those hunters Sam is teaching, they will need another meeting point once they’ve completed their training.”

Dean gapes at him, trying not to get his hopes up. He can picture it with alarming clarity, him behind the bar, Cas sitting off to the side, pouring over the books or a translation for one of Sam’s kids.

But this thing with Cas is so new - rescuing Cas from the Empty, telling him haltingly and not in so many words Cas could have what he wanted after all, doing their weird not-dating thing that works for them. Dean can’t be sure they’re on the same page about this.

Cas is technically human, but so many parts of him are still pretty out there in terms of fitting in with normal people stuff. Dean suggested they go on an honest to God date about two weeks after that went down - dinner at a fancy place in Salina. He even looked it up on Yelp. But, naturally, Cas had to ask ahead of time what usually happened on a date - a real date, Dean, because Metatron’s pop culture dump gave me many false impressions of what is normal or healthy for humans. 

When Dean embarrassingly couldn’t think of a single thing people did on dates except eat and have sex, Cas went to Sam because apparently there are zero boundaries when it comes to Team Free Will. And Sam, like a total Samantha, said most people talked about their feelings and life goals.

To which Cas turned back to Dean, said those big, I love you, words like they’re nothing and everything, and added his life goal was not dying before spending the rest of his human life with Dean.

The fucker even looked pleased Dean didn’t have to shell out the dough for a fancy steak.

“You have enough connections in the community to round up a decent clientele base,” Cas continues. “Not to mention your reputation, which would go a long way towards drawing hunters you personally haven’t met before.”

Dean clears his throat. “You really think I could do something like that?”

Cas narrows his eyes. “I think you could do anything you set your mind to,” he says with that patented-Cas sincerity that Dean would call bullshit with anyone else. Cas continues, “Twenty-seven percent of restaurants fail in their first year, but I have every confidence in you beating the odds.”

Dean snorts. Even Cas’s Beautiful Mind statistics aren’t enough to bring his mood down.

“And if you need help…” Cas drifts off sheepishly, “I do have requisite experience managing inventory. I cut down on unsellable food by fifteen percent two weeks ago.”

“You’re a goddamn genius,” Dean breathes as he bends over Cas.

Cas smiles up at him. “Would you want to?”

“Would I - ?” Dean breaks off incredulously to kiss him. “Of couse I fucking want to. But you really think it’s a good idea?”

Cas purses his lips. “It was my suggestion in the first place.”

“But maybe you were just spitballing,” Dean hedges. “So if you really think restarting the Roadhouse would be a bad idea, I can take it.”

Cas wraps a hand around the back of Dean’s neck, pulling him closer. “I don’t have bad ideas, Dean,” he murmurs.

That is so blatantly untrue, Dean almost bursts out laughing. But before he can make a sound, Cas’s other hand slides underneath his shirt, his fingers tapping lightly against the buckle of Dean’s belt. Dean raises his head to catch sight of Cas's face, and Cas’s eyes are dark with want.

Alright, so in times like these, Dean can admit Cas can have a good idea or two.

[theliterateape]

Training People to Expect Reward for Outrage

By Don Hall

Cancel Culture. The Karen Phenomenon. Donald Trump’s Non-Stop Tirades About FAKE News. The Olympiad of Victim Status. Twitter Trolls. The Alt Right. The Woke.

These seemingly disconnected elements all have a very specific thread in common. They derive from the rewards given to people who complain loudly and without pause. 

Sometime in corporate culture overseeing the idea of customer service, it was decided that the customer is always right and that very powerful framework has slowly infected all aspects of our culture. 

Is this steak overcooked? Of course it is. The customer is always right.

Did I feel threatened by that black kid in the hoodie with the Skittles? Of course you did. The customer is always right.

Is asking me where I’m from racist? How could it not be racist? The customer is always right.

Is journalism that criticizes me every single day FAKE? Duh. The customer is always right.

Is suggesting that a trans woman is not a biological woman transphobic? Especially if you wrote the Harry Potter books! The customer is always right.

Anyone who has ever worked in the service industry understands what a bucket of lukewarm smegma that mantra represents. It permeates our every dealing with people. It creates a sense of entitled behavior that rewards talking over someone to get what you want and emphasizes that, in a world filled with seven billion people all moments from being crushed by an earthquake or leveled by a pandemic, we each deserve a specific kind of treatment from one another.

None of us forest apes who learned to read deserves anything. Ever. 

As the former house manager of a nationwide radio show, former manager of Chicago’s Millennium Park, and current manager in a small off-Strip casino in Las Vegas, I’m used to the drill. I have my own approach that effectively cancels cancel culture in my rooms, defangs the Karens, and ignores the cries of victimhood used to get stuff.

First, do not meet hostility with hostility. This one took me years to figure out but as soon as you react to their hostility the game is afoot. This is not the same as saying “Let them call you names and scream at you.” When I have guests hit me with DEFCON Five, I turn and walk away. Give it a beat and return. If they continue, I walk away again. I am, in effect, training them how to approach me.

He’s six foot, five inches, approximately 350 pounds. And he is furious. 

I approach him to see what he needs and he launches into a rambling “this motherfucker” and “fuck this shit” and “what the fuck is wrong with you people?”

I hold up my hand and say “I’ll be right back.” I walk away. I stop and pick up an empty beer bottle and toss it in the trash. I come back.

“What the fuck was that? You fucking with me?”

The hand goes up. “Give me one second.” I walk away. This time I go to a regular who is playing a Lightning Zone machine and chat him up for a minute. I come back.

“So what can I do for you, sir?” He starts to gin up again. The hand comes up. He stops. He has figured out the game. He thinks for a moment then speaks more calmly about the fact that his twenty dollar bill was stuck in a video poker machine. I smile, make a joke about him breaking my machines with his ill-gotten money, and open the machine up and return his twenty.

Second, do not argue. Argument indicates there is basis for their shitty behavior. Remember they are trying to get something from you. You are in control of the situation. It’s all about choices.

“This fucking face mask shit is all liberal bullshit! I can’t breathe and the only reason their making up this whole coronavirus shit is to tank the economy so Trump loses.”

“Okay. I need you to put the mask on or you’ll have to leave the casino.”

“But you see that, right? It’s all just a bunch of bullshit! It’s also un-fucking-constitutional to force me to wear a mask. It’s goddamn against my freedom of choice!”

“That aside, I need that mask on or you gotta walk the walk.”

“Why?”

“Mask or split. No wiggle room. I’m sorry about that but them’s the rules.”

“Motherfuck. No disrespect to you but this is crap.”

“Maybe so but the mask goes on and stays there or you need to head out.”

Third, do not give them what they want if their behavior is demanding. Requests are awesome. Demands come from children. Children rewarded for making demands become the biggest cunts in society. A variation on the “never negotiate with a terrorist” becomes “never negotiate with an entitled, vicious dickweed.” Offer them a choice of your choosing that may come close but is never exactly what they want unless they request with humility and civility.

A Tale of Two Guests.

Guest number one is apoplectic about the fact that the television in his room isn’t working. He berates the desk clerk, demands to see the manager. When I come over he demands that he be compensated or he will Tweet about the hotel side of the place. I ask the clerk if the engineers have been by to check the TV. They have and it is working now. The guest demands he be comp’d for the night for his trouble. I smile and say “No.”

Guest number two checked in around 3 p.m. after a long drive. It’s 109 degrees outside and his air conditioning has broken down. The engineers couldn’t fix it. He requests some sort of perk for having to sleep in the stifling heat. “Even a free breakfast would be fine,” he says. I comp him his entire stay.

Fourth, if all else fails, confuse them. Confusion in the moment burns away the steam in a fraction of a second.

She is so worked up about her claim that the ATM Kiosk did not dispense her $40.00 that no amount of calmly assisting her is possible.

She’s been met with disbelief from one security officer. Encountered a rhetorical shrug from the cage teller. At the moment I am called over—imagine that, a black woman screaming a full volume that she better see a manager right fucking now—she is clenched like a fist and is bouncing on the balls of her feet as if to leap into some MMA-style melee with the now three security officers. We’re at that place when patience is lost on all sides and she is dragged out of the place, put in cuffs, and the police are called.

I can see this unfolding from across the room. I approach and she spins on me and unleashes a volley of rage-filled verbiage accompaniment by no small amount of spit, her face mask forced from her face from sheer energy.

The moment is saved by Blue Swede on the ever=present casino soundtrack. 

“Whoa! Hold on!” I cry. My hands go up in the air in a show of joy. I look at the officers, I look at her and freeze in place.

“Ooga-chaka Ooga-Ooga Ooga-chaka Ooga-Ooga Ooga-chaka Ooga-Ooga Ooga-chaka Ooga-Ooga...”

And I sing.

“I can't stop this feeling Deep inside of me Girl, you just don't realize What you do to me...”

Confusion. The disconnect between what was going on before the song and in that moment resets things a bit. I smile. “Sorry. I freaking LOVE this song. Now what can I do for you?”

I grew up in what was enshrined the “Me Generation” of the 1980s. With so much of our daily lives encapsulated in performative behavior—the desire to be famous as a higher goal than to be wealthy, the non-stop seeking of approval via endorphin hits of “likes” and “retweets,” the awareness that we are constantly being filmed by everyone with a smartphone—we seem to be in the “Look at Me Generation.” I mean, for chrissakes, what narcissistic asshole first invented Taking a Picture of Yourself as a normal part of our behavior? We have subtly been trained to expect reward from increasingly demanding and childish behavior.

It isn’t enough to accept that, in order to succeed in an overwhelmingly service industry centered economy, we have to capitulate to being fed a shit sandwich and smile pleasantly as we choke it down for a sadly meager hourly wage. Rather than meet this with resignation turned to resentment and our own sense of rage, we have control of the moment. Every interaction is a teaching, a re-training, moment.

There is a difference between a demand and a request. Learn to reward the requests and stonewall the demands until they transform to requests and you begin the process of one-by-one training people that a strategy of cooperation rather than contention leads to more favorable outcomes.

The customer is not always right. In fact, the customer is often completely wrong. You can shift the behavior without abandoning the values of good service.

Train people to expect reward from civility and people will start to be civil.