No-so-creative writing

BY ZEP

It's been a week of mild aggravation, new discoveries and some really bad shrimp linguine, and in the midst of it all I haven't written much....so here's a piece of "creative" [read: sarcastic & bitter] writing I did a year or so ago.




It is a silent day as I stand idly behind the cash desk at Esprit. The floor is free of clothes, a vaguely appealing song is playing on the speakers in between the routine dance music, and most importantly, customers are sparse. I glance at the time on the telephone. It is 6 p.m. and my shift ends at 7 p.m. Only one hour to go.

As I quietly start singing to myself, my eyes shift around the dull greys, reds and whites of my workplace. Working in the retail industry has always been a tedious affair, and today is no different. No sooner had I walked through the front doors before being reminded for about the hundredth time by my boss to sell lots of clothes to lots of customers. I have another glance around the vacant store.

As I continue to wait for an impossible stroke of motivation, my eyes stray to the abandoned parking lot outside. A lone car has just pulled up, and a portly woman with stringy blonde hair steps out of the driver's seat. As I look closely, I see a red shopping bag clutched in her hand, and my insides begin to twist. Returns make my blood boil.

Now, before you dismiss me as just another bitter sales associate, let me explain why I savour the feeling of a deserted retail environment. No customers means no nagging, no rude stares, and no abuse by the people who treat employees like their personal slaves. It is in the nature of the customer to get what they want through intimidation, even if it means disrespecting staff, demanding refunds and breaking a clearly defined store policy. What's worse is that most employees take this awful treatment. Don't get the wrong idea, though, because nice customers are not just the stuff of legends. They do exist.

No, really, they do.

However, the law of retail dictates that the bad must always outweigh the good. As the woman walks through the front doors and up to the counter, I greet her with a smile. It is not returned as she throws her bag up onto the counter and empties out three t-shirts and a pair of pants.

"I bought these clothes for my son and shipped them to him in Waterloo, but they don't fit him so I will be returning them." she says in an authoritative voice.

My store has a 30-day refund or exchange policy. Today's date was March 17, so she would had to have bought the clothes on February 17 or later to be eligible for a refund or exchange of any sort. I kindly ask the woman to see her receipt in order to validate the return and she rummages through her purse, pulling out a crumpled slip of paper. I examine the date on which the clothes were bought. January 8.

I sigh inwardly and give the clock another glance. 50 more minutes.

"I'm sorry ma'am," I say with false regret. "but we have a 30-day refund or exchange policy, and you bought these clothes two months ago, so I'm unable to return them." The woman gives a me puzzled look.

"But they didn't fit my son! He lives in Waterloo! What am I supposed to do with them?" she asks me angrily, expecting me to solve the problem she created.

My insides are now in tightly wound knots and I shout on the inside. It's not my problem, lady! Maybe you should know your son's size before you decide to buy him clothes and send them out to goddamned Waterloo!

"I'm sorry ma'am, but there's nothing I can do," is my actual response.

The woman is furious, her anger resembling a child who can't get a cookie out of the cookie jar. She tries another approach.

"May I speak to your manager, please?"

Ah, yes, the manager card. I should have seen it coming.

With a scowl, I retreat to the back room to speak to my assistant manager, Lori, who vows she will not let the woman return or exchange the items. I observe from the fitting rooms as Lori speaks to the woman, reiterating the same store policy that I had recited not two minutes ago. Not pleased, the customer deals the final blow.

"Fine then! I'd like the phone number for your head office, please."

In a split second, Lori's confidence is replaced by a look of alarm. If a customer calls head office, you can be sure that they will get what they want, and that you will look like an idiot. It is establishments such as these that reinforce the message "the customer is always right". I wish I could strangle the person who invented that phrase.

Lori caves in under the strain of the threat and allows the customer to exchange her items for whatever she wants. I watch with a bitter sorrow as the customer gives Lori a "thank you" and begins to race around the store in gleeful triumph, gathering clothes in her arms. As I walk back to the cash desk, I give the telephone clock another quick look.

45 more minutes.