I was at a garden center the other day, looking to score some indigenous weed for my front boulevard garden. That tall fall grass, you know. Zone Five hardy, tight buds, premium stuff. Anyhow, I was standing in the aisle, surveying the goods, when this completely irate woman charged at me.
She was waving a section of newspaper, red faced, whisper screaming, and ramped up to warp speed. It was so shocking, all I could do was stare blankly at her. It took me a full thirty seconds to figure out what she was so enraged about—which was a misprinted price in a sale circular. Not only that, but she was going to make damn sure that I made right on it, and in her favor, too! No way was I going to bilk her out of two dollars! Huh?
Then the warm sunshine of understanding permeated my fog of confusion, as I looked down at my weekend errand outfit of choice that day: khaki skirt, faded lilac polo shirt.
As soon as I figured out that this public dressing-down was a simple case of mistaken identity, I tried to get a word in edgewise with the roasted nutjob. I tried to say: “I’m sorry! You have mistaken me for a purple-and-tan-garbed employee of this establishment!” When I couldn’t fit that in between her ragged breaths, I tried something shorter: “I don’t work here!”
Alas, the Crazed Complainer had perceived my initial stunned silence for guilt at being caught in the act of flagrant gladioli bulb price gouging. By then, a small but excited crowd of eavesdroppers had gathered. They could smell the blood of the unfashionably smocked. Years of petty consumer grievances had whipped this bunch into a posse of persnickety purchasers. The crowd drew closer as the ranting continued, eager to witness the ultimate reward for the practiced grumbler, the apex of achievement for the professional complainer: that is, getting sumthin’ fer nuthin’.
Now. In my life, I’ve done my share of taking complaints from the general public. Me and them. Mano à mano. At the tender age of sixteen, I handled angry phone calls to the Pioneer Press circulation department. I was powerless. All I could do was listen to their bullsnit and log their complaint into the computer. But a lot of the callers needed the drama of a heated exchange with a department head. I worked the night shift, and everybody who was important was gone by then. So I would say, “Just a minute, let me get my manager.” I’d put the phone down for a few seconds, clear my throat, then get back on the line with a different voice and a made-up name and talk them down. Quite a few times I promised to fire that smart-assed Colleen.
So anyway, I had been standing there with the crazy lady amid the bloodthirsty spectators long enough for the “flight” response to drain away. In its wake came a delicious, stronger rush of adrenaline. My heels dug into the linoleum. George Thorogood power chords cranked in my cerebellum. I settled my face into the kind of patient, insincere smile passed down to me by the ancient shift managers who came before me, the smile that says both “How can I help you?” and “Tough toenail!”
At this point, the woman had been blathering at me for four solid minutes. She saw me engage the Smile of Polite Indifference and raised the stakes with an immediate Call to a Higher Up. “I can see that I’m getting nowhere with you!” she snapped. “I think we should go have a talk with your manager! What’s your name?!”
“Colleen, ma’am.” She smiled back at me, sickly sweet. She took the bait. “Okay, Colleen. Why don’t we go talk to your manager together?”
“Sounds good!” I chirped.
When we got to the help desk, she located a manager and started the rant all over again, jabbing her finger in my direction from time to time. The manager listened, employing his own version of The Smile.
When the woman finished, he agreed to give her the price on the circular. The woman’s eyes blazed in triumph. In the heat of victory, she couldn’t resist a parting shot. She snatched the discount slip out of the manager’s hand and said, “You should train your employees in customer service! This woman was very rude to me!”
She stood there, hoping for the manager to say something to me. It took a second, all of us, standing there looking at each other. Then the guy registered the colors of my outfit. And he started to laugh.
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