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.::oDrew -> Change - A Short Story (10/1/2009 11:52:39)
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Change
Let me tell you about that day.
I once managed to get a job at a typical electronics store in a typical Midwestern town. I was about 16 or 17 then, old enough to take dating seriously, young enough to be awkward. This was before I cut my hair, and so had long bangs that got in my eye sometimes. I was not an unattractive boy, but I held old-fashioned values, and girls were not interested in those. I didn’t talk much when I was at work – I wanted to impress my co-workers, but could never think of anything impressive to say, so I just avoided saying unimpressive things. I cared about what customers thought too, or was good at pretending I did, which I suppose is how I got promoted to the Customer Service counter after a month or two as a cashier. Being a “Customer Service Representative” was, in the words of my supervisor, a highly privileged position with fantastic opportunity for growth. What my supervisor failed to mention is that the primary role of a Customer Service Representative was dealing with the constant stream of clinically insane customers. This is why, on that day in late August, I spent part of the afternoon listening to the middle-aged lady at the counter explain how Jesus guided her along the path, a path that led to the purchase of a black rotary phone.
The day had begun just like any other day that summer – I woke up at 8:37, a time that no teenager should ever have to face between the months of June and September. I somehow made it to the kitchen, where I poured black coffee into a white-and-pink “World’s Best Mom” mug. There were some mornings where I wouldn’t even drink the coffee, but I couldn’t imagine not making myself a cup. The house was quiet as I finished three-fourths of my "breakfast." I went upstairs, showered, brushed my teeth, the whole deal. My uniform was on the bedroom floor, like usual: a once-crisp, standard issue polo shirt with an embroidered logo, wrinkled khaki pants, and black loafers. I hadn’t ever replaced a single item of the ensemble; I liked knowing exactly how the clothes would feel once I put them on. Checking myself over with a glance towards the full-length mirror on my bedroom wall, I didn’t think about the way we had been bestowed with our uniforms like badges of honor, like we were the only retail store in the western world with embroidered polo shirts and khaki pants as our uniforms.
I drove to work the same way I always did. I hoped the girl with the blue Jetta was at the 21st Avenue stoplight. She wasn’t. I often wondered if I had time for a drive-thru breakfast, but since I had never stopped for one, I didn’t know how long it would take, and so I was back to where I started. I remember being annoyed whenever somebody took “my” parking spot.
Our store was a typical one: it was essentially a large warehouse, with tile floors and metal walls and florescent lights hanging from rafters. Everything was worn-down and dingy, making new things seem out of place. The store had always looked more or less the same since I first arrived there; I think we all liked to imagine that it was permanent. Change is never a good thing in the retail world. Change means you have to receive product training, or re-learn where the calculator aisle is, or say goodbye to a co-worker, or hear someone tell you that your position doesn’t exist anymore. We even hated giving change. With credit cards, it’s all muscle memory: swipe. Sign here. Print. Easy. Cash is always different.
My supervisor enjoyed telling me that not just anybody could work the Customer Service counter, only the best of the best. Do you see the way those other employees goof off and screw around all day? That’s why they don’t get to work Customer Service. To me, it seemed like it was the other way around, but I was naďve and intimidated and didn’t say anything. I just kept doing the same thing I did every day, smiling and nodding while customers asked Neanderthalic questions or requested that I ---- off. That was the secret to success: act happy, act like you care. Of course, this was a difficult thing in the case of the half-crazy rotary-phone prophetess. I was reading the employee handbook once, and in the part about helping customers over the phone, it said that they (the customers) should be able to “hear the smile in your voice.” I always laughed at that, until I realized that it was possible. I wondered what facial expression people heard in my voice. I kept my counter clean and often eyed my Customer Service co-worker, a slender brunette whose polo and khaki pants fit just tightly enough to keep me entertained.
She never said much to me. Maybe she was loud and obnoxious around other people, I don’t know. But she and I generally maintained what I liked to think was a casual contentment. We would squeeze past each other occasionally on busy days, as we both rushed around doing four things and once, and I would feel her soft arm rub against mine. I relished these moments. Her button came undone once. I didn’t say anything. I was a civil enough guy, but a hint of cleavage does something to a bored, inexperienced 17-year-old mind. The morning of the rotary phone lady’s visit, she bent to pick up a dropped pen and I nearly lost it, right then and there. I can’t remember her name – Elissa?
I arrived at 9:26, like I always did. I didn’t realize it at the time, but that day marked my one-year hiring anniversary. (Is that the right word, anniversary?) The automatic doors slid open, inviting me to tour the typical pre-opening sights: I walked past the GM yakking on his Blackberry, past the three warehouse guys struggling to lift a large dishwasher, past the two computer salesmen discussing processor brands, past the four or five cell phone department reps arguing over some mildly important crisis, past the cute-but-way-out-of-my-league cashier and her friend, until I finally arrived at the counter. I took my place at the register, where I had stood so loyally for thousands of hours before.
From my vantage point, everything was normal, which was refreshing. Chilly air was being pumped out of the massive, groaning ceiling vents on my left. To my right were the cell phone displays, which I’m sure would have been impressive if they were properly maintained. As it was, the phones were like tiny plastic oysters: some opened to reveal a cheerily lit display, others were dark and dead. Beyond the cell phone ocean and a few rows of DVDs was the front door. I was not fond of this configuration, as I was forced to watch in dreadful anticipation as angry customers came marching in towards the counter. I always thought I could use that time to find something to say, something witty and thoughtful and calming, the sort of things my supervisor was so good at saying. But instead I just stood there, frozen, as I did while the rotary phone hag walked in. If I craned my neck to the left a bit, I could see around the GPS and calculator aisles to catch a glimpse of the computer department. I caught such glimpses as often as I could – I knew a fair amount about computers in my own right and was curious about which computer each salesman would recommend for each customer. I never really spoke with anyone from computers, but I felt more familiar with them than anyone in the store. Mark preferred Toshibas for men and Hewlett-Packards for women, and always told jokes. I knew his sales strategies better than he did, I’m sure.
The store opened, and the morning got a jump-start on dragging on like a PBS pledge drive. I’m sure I helped a few customers. It was always the same old thing. Return or exchange, ma’am? Question, sir? Let me check. Let me get a manager for you. The calculators are right over there, behind the GPS display. Let me get a manager for you. I’m sorry, but we’re out of stock. Return or exchange? Let me get a manager for you. Elissa, if that was her name, arrived midway through the morning, a welcome break from the stale monotony. We exchanged hey, what’s up’s and went right into the usual routine wherein I studied her back pocket and she forgot I existed. My supervisor half-jogged his way up to me with a few receipts in his hand, asking if I could mind taking care of this? I obliged, and he responded with the obligatory smile and a “thanks, Calvin.” Calvin was another Customer Service worker who was hired around the same time as me. Everyone always mistook me for Calvin, but nobody mistook Calvin for me, ever.
I hated my job. Unfortunately, the dreadful routine of it all had become too familiar, too familiar for me to realize how much I hated it. But I soon would.
The lady walked in at about two. I had not done much of anything by that point, aside from studying Elissa’s figure so intently you’d think I was preparing for a college-level exam – PERV 101, maybe. The customer caught my attention as she passed the DVDs. She was a strange-looking woman: short, with frizzy blond hair poking out from beneath a two-small cowboy hat. Her teeth were crooked, and a Lynyrd Skynyrd t-shirt and torn-up jeans enveloped her plump build. I watched her mosey over to the counter.
“Excuse me.” She had a slight Southern drawl, which made every other sentence sound like a question. “I’m lookin’ to buy a rotary phone? Black. With big numbers on it.” I blinked. It was about all I could manage.
“I…I don’t think we have rotary phones,” I stuttered. I had never been caught so off-guard by a simple question. Sure, people asked if we had weird things in stock sometimes, but it’s always things like a specific DVD or a certain calculator, things that we might actually have and were worth asking about. Did anyone even still use rotary phones? The lady’s mouth dropped as if I had offended her somehow. She shook her head like a bull about to charge.
“Naw, naw. You do. I know it.” She pointed her finger right at my nose. “Now go fetch me one.” I didn’t know what to say to this woman. How was it that in all those thousands of hours behind the counter, I never before faced a situation like this? We stood in stubborn silence for a moment or two, wordlessly challenging each other to prove ourselves, until I attempted to placate her.
“Let me see what we have in stock.” I don’t know when or why I started using “let me” at the beginning of everything I said to a customer, as if I needed their permission. I pulled up some screens on the register, well aware that she was watching my every move. I typed in my query and blew the hair out of my eyes as I waited for the results. Elissa stood leaning against the counter at her usual spot, observing the exchange with dispassionate interest. The lull in conversation made me more aware of the ambient noise the store generated. I never noticed how well I could hear the conversations taking place in the cell phone department. I glanced in that direction to see who was speaking, and when I turned back to the computer, I was met by the picture of a black rotary phone with extra-large numbers and the words, “IN STOCK. QTY: 1” I started at the screen in disbelief for a full three seconds. I looked at the frizzy-haired patron. She met my eyes with an intense gaze, but said nothing. She simply waited. I tried to say something, but the words stumbled out of my mouth. The only sentence I could form was the question already on my mind. “How did you know that?” Her face was as serious as the economic crisis. She leaned over the counter a little, and I bent down to her level. She grabbed me by the shirt and yanked me even lower, until my right ear was only an inch from her lips.
“Jesus told me so,” she whispered, and pulled herself away from me as she let go of my shirt and gave a reassuring nod. Another silence fell across the conversation. The words sat in the air so tangibly I felt like I could reach out and grab them and stuff them right back into her mouth. Elissa let out a single, sharp laugh in disbelief. I wasn’t sure if she was laughing at what the prophetess had whispered or at how foolish a sight I must have been, being thrown around by a woman no more than five feet tall. I looked down at my hands as I formulated my thoughts. Surely I misunderstood. She couldn’t possibly have meant what I thought she meant. I cleared my throat and spoke without looking up from my hands.
“So you’re saying that Jesus told you to come here and buy a black rotary phone?” I finally raised my head to meet her eyes once again, which were just as I left them.
“That’s exactly right. And it’s here, just like he said.” She had me there. But I wasn’t satisfied. I could hardly believe that I was saying the next words to come out of my mouth.
“So, why exactly did Jesus tell you to do that?” A smug expression spread across her face like a disease, as if she not only expected the question, but hoped that I would ask it. But then her face returned to normal, and she finally broke her stare and fixed her attention on the brochures next to the register. She sighed.
“I reckon I’m not sure,” she admitted. She offered a defeated shrug to underline her helplessness. “I even tried asking him myself, but he just kept saying, ‘go to that dang store and buy the goddamn thing!’” I had a feeling she was paraphrasing. “But this ain’t the first time he’s asked me to do something crazy. I’ll bet you think I’m crazy, don’tcha.” She smiled with an unexpected genuineness, revealing those yellow, mangled teeth. I didn’t respond, and I don’t think I was supposed to, anyway. “Well, even if you do, I don’t mind a bit. I think the Lawd knows I rather enjoy actin’ crazy, and he’s blessed me with an excuse. I ain’t got a need for a dang rotary phone. I don’t even know how the dang things work. All I know is that I’m s’posed to buy one, and ya’ll are s’posed to sell it to me.” Now it was my mouth that hung open. I was speechless. I felt like my bones were vibrating. I gawked at her like she had just popped her eyeball out and grown a new one. I must have looked like an idiot. She just smiled politely, raising her eyebrows and avoiding my eyes the way people do when it’s your turn to act but you don’t know it.
“Let me get that for you,” I finally said. I found the phone, thanked her for stopping by, and sent her on her way. Then I went home, changed my clothes, threw my polo shirt in the trash, and slept in until at least noon every day for the rest of the summer.
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