This Small-Town Life [jessi]

If I could blog freely about work and my customers without the danger of getting fired, I would. When I took my Customer Service position at a small office in a small town, I thought I would deal primarily with two-parent church-going families, and retirees. And there are lots of those, but in the last two years I’ve been delighted to find that the best and worst of humanity congregates in unexpected places—including the teller line at the bank.

Even better, my office and job have made me suddenly visible to the community in which I grew up. Having never gone to school or church here, I never had a reason to be noticed, but now I’ve somehow joined the club. I feel a little bit like Norm from “Cheers”; and my regulars all know me, and they call me “kiddo”, “honey”, “babes” (from one former East Coast-er), and my favorite: “Wee bit of an angel.” Some of them bring us cookies, or buy us coffee, and every once in a while, we get a postcard from someone who has gone on vacation. When was the last time you sent your banker a postcard? We’ve been invited to 85th birthday parties, and church potlucks, and I have my own personal girl scout cookie seller, who skips in with her order form every Spring so that she can bilk me out of $5.00 for each box of cookies that I’m sucker enough to buy (usually at least three). I can’t help it—she’s so adorable.

Now, it’s really not all sunshine and lollipops. I’ve had to curb my aggressive driving tendencies. Honking and tailgating gets embarrassing really fast when the driver in front of me ends up being someone I know. And of course the Customer Service industry still has the same pitfalls here as anywhere—namely irate and exasperated people. Money is tight, gas is above 4.00 per gallon, and everyone gets cranky when it’s time to fill up their Suburbans and Tahoes. But for the most part, I feel privileged to be let in to people’s lives this way.

Without names and situations, maybe the following doesn’t mean as much to you as it does to me, but here are some of the things that I’ve been told, either at my counter or around town in the last few months:

“We’re pregnant”

“We’re adopting from Africa”

“It’s breast cancer—this is the second time”

“We lost the baby”

“My wife is in a coma, and the doctors don’t know if there will be brain damage.”

“Which would you like me to make for you—a hat or a scarf?”

My grandson is single, and about your age…”

“My daughter is graduating”

“I’ve brought my new grand-baby in to see you”

“I sold the farm two months ago, and I hate being retired”

“We’re getting divorced”

I’m not sure if I just have a sympathetic face or if the openness comes from this being such a small and highly-churched community, but either way, my prayer list is getting longer. I’ve started giving hugs, and sending cards. It’s one thing that makes me glad, even on the days when I want to buy a ticket to Anywhere and tramp off across the world, that I am where I am for now.