Sadly, our bookstore is closing forever. My little crew of amazing gals and I are sad to be having our “Everything Must Go” sale, but we’re trying to have fun with it. There are very few rules at this point, but the one rule that is stamped in giant red letters on every receipt is: “ALL SALES FINAL! ABSOLUTELY NO RETURNS.”
A woman stalks up to the counter about three days before our final day. You know that determined walk: slightly bent forward at the waist, stompy gait, lips pressed into a grim non-existent line. My gals fade into the background behind me like Homer Simpson fading into a hedge row.
From her oversized handbag, she slaps this children’s book onto the counter with a pretty impressively loud crack. She uses what I am pretty sure she thinks is a very imperious, important tone and loudly exclaims:
Customer: “I cannot believe you would sell me such an incredibly inappropriate book for children!”
Me: “I am sorry that you found the book inappropriate for the age group. May I ask what is wrong with this particular title?”
Customer: “Don’t you read these things before you sell them to children?”
Me: “No, actually, they are screened by the publishers and they then pass that information on to our company. I have not personally read every book in my store.”
Customer: “This book is for children, but it has the word ‘poop’ in it. Actually, it says ‘poop’ many times. This is not appropriate for my five-year-old granddaughter. You need to be careful what you sell to children!”
Me: “I do apologize that you are unhappy with the word ‘poop’, but generally, I do not sell books to children. I sell books to parents who pre-screen what they wish their children to see or not see.”
Customer: “Do not get snippy with me, young lady! You know perfectly well that this book is inappropriate.”
I am forty-three.
Me: “I am sorry, but I cannot help you. If you wish to return the book, I literally cannot help you. Our registers are programmed by the corporate office, and I no longer even have a return function.”
I indicate the bright red hand-stamped “all sales final” notice on her receipt.
I am making no joke of her choice in grandchild raising. If she does not want the word “poop” used, so be it. Who am I to judge? I AM wondering what exactly she does call a number two in her household.
Customer: “I want to talk to the manager.”
Me: “I am the manager.”
Customer: “Then I want the number to your corporate office!”
I hand her my business card with the corporate number on the front. She pulls out her phone, still standing in my checkout line, and calls the corporate office.
Me: “Ma’am, could you please step to the side so I can wait on the people behind you while you talk on the phone?”
She whips up an imperious, manicured finger and shakes it at me while turning her head away, listening to her phone. Initially, the people behind her are angry, but now we’re staring at her in morbid curiosity. She snaps her phone closed and glares at me.
Customer: “You have to take the book back; they said so.”
Me: “Of course, they did. Ma’am, it is impossible for me to process any kind of return through our registers, and they would know that. I was not lying about not being able to take back the book through the register. However—” *pulls the change out of my pocket and hands her $1.26* “—you can consider this a victory for the poop-free world. Please leave my store.”
Customer: *Shakes my business card at me* “I have your information! I am going to call them back and tell them that I had to force you to help me. And that you are inappropriate, and…”
Honestly, I tune her out completely. I look at her, gesture broadly to my ravaged dream job of a store, and say:
Me: “Be my guest; they don’t care.”
Every customer who had waited through that exchange over a “dollar book that said ‘poop'” laughed with me for some time after, while I helped them with their newfound treasures.
I still have the book.
