February 10, 2015

• Never Let the Truth Get in the Way

  I popped into my local consignment store after my hair appointment, around 4:40.  I was happy to note that my favorite sales associate was working today.  She reminds me of my favorite niece, Tuesday.  She's a cute, good-sized girl, open and friendly.  I've chatted her up when there were no other customer in the shop and easily learned that she has a disability that prevents her from driving.  Consequently, her job opportunities are limited to those within walking distance of the home she shares with her dad.  He suffers from some brain aging issues and struggles mostly with sundown syndrome; so, she makes sure she's home early in the evening to care for him.

  A few minutes after I walked in, another woman entered the shop. The likeable clerk informed her that she would be closing in 15 minutes.  I didn't see anything wrong with letting us know how close it was to closing time, but the other woman went off on her.  She exclaimed how rude the girl was for saying that.  The sales clerk politely explained that it was essential that she leave by 5:00 because she needed to attend her disabled father.  The unhappy customer proceeded to tell her how the owner of the shop wouldn't be happy to learn how rudely she had been treated.  Just when I thought she must be finished berating the girl, she continued with telling her what she should have said. Blah, blah blah.

  By this time, I was feeling acutely uncomfortable because the tension in the tiny store was palpable, and besides, the attack was unjustified.  When the snotty woman drew breath to launch into her again, I moved between the two women, who were widely separated, the clerk being behind the counter and the crabby lady standing a dozen feet away, and very quietly said to her, "I thing you've made your point."

  "I don't need you telling me what to do," she snapped as she strode to the other side of the narrow store.

  I sized her up.  She outweighed me by a good 40 or 50 pounds, but I was at least as tall as she was.  I followed her menacingly to where the gently used shoes watched warily from the vantage of their rack.  The ones lined up in rows on the floor, along the wall, cringed a little, aware of their vulnerability.

  "Apparently, you do," I hissed as I crowded her space, looking into her beady, unhappy eyes.

  I was aware of the sweet, little clerk who had been on the verge of tears, now looking on in nonplussed wonder.

  I watched the emotions flicker across the customer's porcine face, loathe to give up her anger, but realizing that it might not be enough of a defense against this hostile old woman with the beautifully coiffed hair.  Anyone with hair this gorgeous, must be crazy to risk messing it up in a cat fight.  I knew I'd made my point when the smell of urine, which was plainly visible now running down her left leg, reached my congested, snot-filled nose.  (I have the remnants of a mild cold)

  I stepped aside to allow her to make her way out, resisting the urge to stick my foot out and trip her.

  When I got home, I went online and posted reviews on Yelp and FaceBook, extolling the virtues of the store and most effusively, the staff.  I also called the owner of the shop to explain the urine stain on her carpet.

  • 10:15 pm
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