Asshole in Brussels

On July twelth I enountered I was trying to get from Belgium to Germany and came up against snotty, racist customer service courtesy of Belgian Railway at the Brussels-Midi train station. There is something about French speakers that just tempts a slap in the mouth. This case was no exception.

But, as usual, when blacks enter the game, rules change

After staying up all night in the station chatting and laughing with other stranded backpackers---we had nothing else to do---I made sure to be one of the first persons in line when the travel office opened at 0600hrs. About seven people were in line in the otherwise deserted ticket office at six in the morn when a black vagabond cut in line. The worker muttered something and off the tramp shuffled. Then it was my turn. Another one, he probably thought, and DISMISSIVELY demanded my line number. I hadn't one because, well, there were only seven of us in the office at six in the morning. Also, no one ahead of me took numbers. Also the service reps weren't even bothering with the numbers either. But, as usual, when blacks enter the game, rules change.

Give me your ticket or get out of here, said the service rep. Hello! Fine, I retorted and told him he needn't be an asshole about it. This shocked him---shocked him, I tells ya!---and he started shouting, Security! Securtiy! I'm calling security! You are threatening me!

Huh? It was no threat. It was an assessment of his snooty, antagonistic behaviour. Like any dissatisfied customer I asked to speak with the manager or supervisor. At this point, the sissy man went into hysterics, insisting his co-workers ignore me and shouting at the top of his lungs, "Don't help him! He can't ride our trains! Security, security, security! Security, security, security! He can't ride our trains! He called me an asshole! Security, security, security!" This display went on for about three minutes.

Instead of a manager I was confronted with, you guessed it, Security. Apparently all of them (there were no less than eight red shirts). The head of this red shirt bloc, a tiny man, was trying his best to engage me in a confrontation. Like a monkey he kept thumping his chest and jutting out his chin. Was I seriously supposed to be intimidated or whatever by this?? Nigga please. This tiny, angry man also insisted no Belgian Railway manager or supervisor worked on Sundays, claiming he was the manager (with more chest thumping). Although I am black I am not an idiot.

But, lo and behold, before exiting the ticket office a manly female supervisor did step forward to defend her employee. So much for that blatant lie. Where was she when I asked to speak with her? Certainly not shaving the upper lip.

I coolly gathered my bags and ignored the red shirts as they muttered insults in French because I realize most people who take security jobs have low I.Q.s and even lower social etiquette. They laughed and sang, au revoir, to me. But I kept my cool. I rode the escalator out only to find I'd landed onto the platform where, bon chance, the very train I needed was arriving. So despite Belgian Railways' shitty customer service and refusal to sell me a ticket I got on board the damn train anyhow and went to where I needed to go. Hahaha! (I still possessed an unused ticket but the change of events still felt like sweet vengeance.)

The whole situation was blown out of proportion and greatly absent of customer service. A manager should have stepped in when requested by me, the customer, not her employee. That rep was one curt, rude, hysterical (someone should post the video tapes on Youtube) Frenchlick. Perhaps I should not have called him on it but, yeah, not only was he an asshole, he's a big emotional sissy, too. "Security! Security!"

Despite Belgian Railways shitty refusal to sell me a ticket I got on board the damn train anyhow and went to where I needed to go. Hahaha parlez vous francais motherfuckers!

Belgian Railway
www.b-rail.be