There Is No Pleasantness In Pleasanton

I used to work in a bookstore that has since gone the way of the dinosaurs. This woman who came in was the epitome of “soccer mom,” sans the plethora of shrieking children. She paraded into the store with her nose high in the air, removed her glasses, and swept the building from wall to wall with a haughty, disdainful glance.

I greeted her from my domain at the Information Desk.

Me: “Hello! Welcome to [Bookstore]! How may I help you?”

She gave an audible sniff and strutted past me without a word or a glance, disappearing into an obscure corner of the store.

“Okie-dokie, I don’t want to talk to you, either,” I thought dryly.

But a few minutes later she came storming back, her face twisted in fury and frustration.

Customer: “Excuse me. Where are the stairs to your second floor?”

Me: “Um, actually, ma’am, we don’t have a second floor.”

I barely finished my sentence before she spat out:

Customer: “Yes, you do!”

Me: “No, ma’am. We don’t. We are a single-story building.”

Hang on to your temper. Hang on to it. Don’t say anything that gets you fired.

Customer: “LIAR!”

Her voice reached a pitch that, I’m sure, struck every dog in the metropolitan area completely deaf.

Customer: “I’ve been shopping here for thirteen years, and I know you have a second story!”

Oh, god of retail, take me now.

Me: “Ma’am, this store was built six years ago. I helped unpack the product myself. Besides, where would I even hide the stairs? In my back pocket?”

She huffed. She puffed. She swelled up like Harry Potter’s Aunt Marge.

Customer: “I want to speak to your manager!”

Love to, darling, love to, but they were in a meeting and wouldn’t come out for anything short of an actual emergency. It took a herculean effort not to let my snide thoughts come to my expression. The last time I’d called a manager for an angry customer, I was informed that I would just have to deal with them myself and to simply call the police to remove them if they became aggressive. I was told that meetings were important and that I needed learn how to handle problems on my own.

Me: “I’m afraid that’s not possible, ma’am. No managers are available right now.”

This was not going to end well, I could tell.

Customer: “Look, stop being such a lying c***! Tell me where the stairs are!”

Her volume had risen steadily, and she was now shrieking at me.

My coworkers were, mysteriously, nowhere in sight. Thanks a lot, you cowards!

Aaaand Miss Nice Girl had left the building! I will put up with barked demands, but the moment you call me names, I’m done with you, and I will happily be fired over it.

Me: “M’kay, I’m refusing you service now.”

She ranted, she raged, and she stormed back and forth. Then, she spouted the first thing that helped me figure out her fixation on the mysteriously absent second floor.

Customer: “I’ve never been treated this poorly before. I have a paid membership!”

She whipped out a dark green card and brandished it in my face.

Customer: “You are the rudest little brat in all of Pleasanton!”

I stopped pretending to ignore her. My head came up like a dog that has just caught wind of something pungent. She stopped in mid-rant. Slowly, a sarcastic, sickly-sweet smile crossed my face.

Me: “Well, ma’am, I think I finally understand why you can’t find the second floor. First of all, we don’t have a paid membership; our card is free. Second of all, that’s a [Bookstore #2] Membership card, and you’re in [Bookstore]. Finally, you’re not in Pleasanton. You’re in Pleasant Hill. Pleasanton is about a thirty-minute drive south of here. You’re not only in the wrong store; you’re in the wrong city entirely. Have a nice day!”

Her whole body snapped rigid in shock, and she stared around at our store for the second time, though perhaps only seeing it for the first. She turned and stared at the lanyard around my neck that proudly proclaimed my name and the name of the store I worked for.

The gears were finally turning in her head. I thought I could smell the burning clutch. Slowly, silently, she walked out of the building. I had a straight line of sight out our front door, and I watched as she looked up at the sign attached to the side of the building… a sign that was lit from within, bright red, and taller than most humans stand.

Then, she just turned and vanished into the afternoon sun on a walk of shame.