We all ask ourselves at some point or maybe all the time, who am I? And what have I become? I for one, ask myself this at least ten times a day as another customer berates me for their own ignorance while I stand there mute, offering them a plastered on smile of professionalism.
In reality, I want to tell her (to tell them all) to shove it up her ass and take it up with corporate but like every person whose ever worked in retail, I needed this job to help pay for student loans and my meagre existence in which I consume way too many burritos and chicken shawarma plates from the food court of Malamute's only shopping district. Yup, that's right. I live in a town that's named after a dog breed and is basically the chihuahuas of all existing towns known to humankind.
Would explain why most of the people living here are absolute shits, pardon the foul mouth but really, with this nasty customer going on about how the prices at our midscale boutique store were overpriced in comparison to the outlet version (it's called an outlet for a reason, lady) and the crying baby in a stroller belonging to another shopper, I'm ready to call it a day.
"I'm so sorry to hear that you think the product isn't worth the price, but I can assure you that our merchandise is different," I managed to seethe through clenched teeth, reminding myself to smile as my hands ball into fists behind my back.
"It's the same brand! How is it any different?" she howled, crossing her arms defiantly with one of the priciest handbags on display in her clutches.
Yeah, like that's gonna get you a discount on a random Wednesday afternoon.
Producing another one of my fake smiles reserved solely for those who want the most for less, I gesture towards the five hundred plus dollar bag. "The materials and quality are different, plus that's a runway piece which would never be found at an outlet store. Not within the next three years at the very least."
How I wish this was a case study for one of my college courses where I'm out in the field, conducting an experiment on how retail workers are valued as equally as a single dried anchovy.
"Ridiculous! I'd like to speak to your manager," she huffed, giving me eyes brimming with contempt.
"Of course, one moment while I inform her that you would like a word," I returned unfazed and march to the back room past a vestibule and down a narrow hall before turning a corner where the manager's desk along with all the security cameras are situated.
"A customer wants to speak to you, Jane," I hurled, coming to a stop right before her chair where she's filling out an assortment of forms for a meeting with the DM on Friday.
"What's it this time?" she groaned, putting the blue ballpoint pen in her fingers down with a dramatic flare.
"Outlet," I replied, nodding when she gives me a look of pure dread.
"Great, now I have to explain why something that's priced as three digits isn't fifty bucks."
"Already did that. And it's the new collection, meaning outlet doesn't have it. There's no way she ever saw it at outlet either so there's no point in mentioning a price match."
"Why is it always the handbags? Why can't they ever go after a silk scarf or a keychain?" Jane wailed, wheeling her chair away from her desk to stand and prepare herself for the worst.
Planting a firm hand on her shoulder, I offer her a grim expression. "Well if it makes you feel any better, there's also a crying baby out there with a mother determined to ignore the needs of her child and is focused purely on the display of heels."
Groaning, she walks past and heads for the lion's den and leaves me behind in the back with Adam, the inventory guy who scans away at new merchandise packed in barcoded boxes.
Finally being able to bask in undiluted silence, I take deep breaths and remind myself that this horrible mid-day shift will be over in thirty minutes and I can grab an obligatory overpriced drink from a coffeeshop a few stores down to sip on the bus ride home.
"Rough out there, huh?" Adam offered with sympathy, continuing to click the scanner that beeps mechanically.
"Not as worse as the woman who tried on white pants earlier and wiped her donut cream hands all over it while I stepped away to bring her a water bottle in the fitting room. She then had the nerve to play it off as an 'accident' by someone else. And yeah, the flavour was chocolate and the stain brown. Or better yet, the guy who stopped by to buy both his wife and mistress the exact same handbag. My sight and my morals have been fried. So rough? Nah, it's Wednesday. Soul crippling? Yes."
"I think you need a donut," Adam said, shrugging with a smirk.
"Yeah, I think so too," I huffed, realising that I've just vented unnecessarily and needed to be out there on the store's floor front. "Okay, thanks for the unpaid therapy session, Adam," I said hurriedly, rushing towards the door.
"Always glad to be an unlicensed doctor!" he hollered after me, making my lips twitch into a smile as the door swings open to reveal Nadia, the store's 'cash-person' aka assigned to the register checking out the sobbing baby's mother and Jane, deep in an explanation with my annoying customer.
Swerving past both, I stand in an inconspicuous corner pretending to be occupied by realigning and adjusting the wallets on display and a few strapped wallet bags on t-stands. If I act busy without doing anything for the next twenty minutes, then I can clock out on time for once.
Finished with the baby's mother, Nadia widens her eyes at me from across the counter and I merely shrug. Yeah, what a day it's been.
We both shake our heads and begin dusting display merchandise, waiting for Jane to put an end to the indirect pleas for a bargain and grin gleefully once the woman furiously stomps out of the glass doors five minutes later.
"Phew, what a Wednesday, eh?" Jane commented, an expression of wide-eyed bewilderment mirroring the one shared earlier by Nadia and I.
"Why is it never dead when I pick up a shift?" I questioned, verbally asking the universe instead of my colleagues who laugh at my misery.
"It's usually dead but today..." Nadia trailed, tilting her head in my direction.
Rolling my eyes, I glance at the clock on my wrist and plead with Jane to let me leave five minutes early. With a bleak frown she agrees and I swiftly go through the mundane tasks needed to leave the store and punch out before briskly heading for the coffeeshop where I order a small pricey iced latte.
Catching the No. 54 bus waiting at a stop by a curb on the far side of the shopping district with a coffee in hand, the short ride back to my quiet old neighbourhood is a peaceful one full of tranquil sips infused with vanilla.
Thanking the driver as I step off the bus onto Langston street, I pass several homes until I arrive at the grey-stone house marked twenty-nine where I expect a package at my doorstep.
And to no surprise, a bouquet of fragrant white flowers on dark brown stems are wrapped is rustic paper with a thick white ribbon tied around the base that encases a folded card.
Opening the card, I read the enclosed message:
From,
K
"Another day, another set of flowers," I said, glancing around to see if my mysterious sender is watching behind a tree or a camera crew is hiding in plain sight, ready to pounce, to declare this a candid moment for a reality show.
But no one shows.
***********
A/N: All images belong to their respective artist(s) and original sources.
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Flowers for Rachel
Romance| FEATURED | Every day, Rachel Everheart comes home from her deadbeat retail job to a mysterious delivery of flowers, each bouquet different from the last and with their own intended meaning. Romantic, right? But she doesn't know who the sender is o...
