The love song of Mr. Jittery.
I am putting off Actual Work in order to write this, I'll have you know.
I saw Shopgirl in the theater, and I sort of liked it1, but any woman who's worked in retail knows that it is rarely a good thing when a customer attempts to cross the invisible line that separates service workers from the people they serve. Picture to yourself a guy that you'd think of as the type to approach a sales clerk and try to strike up a conversation. Not a pretty sight, is it?
Whatever you imagined, it probably wasn't as bad as Mr. Jittery. He's one of those older guys whose disregard for the way he looks has rendered him, appearance-wise, just a short step up from "homeless": a long, unkempt beard, greasy hair, bit of a slouch, shabby clothes that could use a round or two in the wash. He is jittery, and so I refer to him as Mr. Jittery, and the jittery words that come out of his jittery mouth turn mildly disturbing in no time at all.
"I, I talked to somebody earlier, and I was looking for Selina2, and the guy I talked to said she'd called in late, and then I went to her section, and, they said she doesn't work here anymore. And, I, I just want to know, which is it, because I made some decisions based on what the guy told me..."
This is one of those situations where I don't need to get a manager, but I consult with one for show. I tell Mr. Jittery that I'm going to ask a manager what's up, but the only manager on the floor is busy with a customer so I tell him to hold on. Mr. Jittery takes this as a signal to continue talking.
"I bought a book--"
"Okay, I'm getting a manager, hold on..."
"And, and a card--"
I'm thoroughly creeped out now but I once again tell him to hold on.
"I think I talked to the black guy," and the emphasis in that sentence is used here to denote an undertone of intense and undying racial hatred that if not for the constraints of law and cowardice would manifest itself in lynchings and beatings and spontaneous blackface minstrel shows. It is possible that I am imagining this.
"Okay well, hold on," I repeat, and I can't deal with Mr. Jittery anymore so I decide to just break into the conversation the manager is having with the customer to ask her if there's a Selina working in the store.
She gives me a quizzical look. "I don't think so...do you mean Serena3?" It seems pretty obvious at this point that The Black Guy simply misheard "Selina," the name of somone who no longer works at the store, as "Serena," the name of somebody who called in late on Wednesday.
"It's possible, I dunno. In any case, this nutjob over here is looking for her and he says he was told she doesn't work here anymore, so I'm just gonna confirm that, okay?"
I get the go-ahead and return to the desk to give the bad news to Mr. Jittery, who gives me a look that I imagine would have been the preface to a hangin' back in the old days.
"Well," he pulls out a bag, "I need to return this," and out of the bag he produces a book, gift-wrapped by one of our talented BN cashiers. On the wrapping paper, in big, child-like letters, is written "SELINA". It has exactly the right mixture of utter guilelessness and abject desperation that screams "this guy follows girls home and hallucinates that he's marrying them as he mutilates their vaginas."
"Okay, you can return it at the cashiers."
"I need to return the card, too," he continues. "But I wrote on it. Can I return a card if I wrote on it?"
It's all I can do to keep from laughing. "No, sir. If you wrote on it they won't let you return it."
"They won't?" There's that look again. The if-you-were-my-servant-I-would-whip-you-for-this look.
One of the great pleasures of my job is telling people, unambiguously, "no." No other options, no number you can call, no manager to plead with. Just "no." So I do it.
Mr. Jittery just stands there as if pondering the cruel hand that life has dealt him. I decide that this guy's creepy and crazy and I might as well just see what I can get away with.
"What'd you get her?"4
He straightens up and tells me it's none of my business, obviously shocked at my temerity. Evidently deciding that I can no longer help him, Mr. Jittery proceeds to the cashiers to conduct his business.
"It's never good-looking guys, either," a manager laments as soon as Mr. J is out of earshot.
"Well," I say by way of attempting to put it all in perspective, "you can be attractive and still be crazy."
"Yeah, but, I mean, like, someone who looks like Tom Cruise, they're usually not psychos."
"Tom Cruise? Nice example."
She laughs, then is called to the cashiers. I find out a few minutes later that she was called there because Mr. Jittery insisted on getting a refund on the card he'd written on. He didn't get one.
1 Granted, I sort of have a thing for Claire Danes.
2 This name has been changed.
3 This name has also been changed.
4 A subsequent conversation with The Black Guy revealed that, had things not gone so horribly, horribly awry, Selina would have been the lucky recipient of The Tale of Genji.
I saw Shopgirl in the theater, and I sort of liked it1, but any woman who's worked in retail knows that it is rarely a good thing when a customer attempts to cross the invisible line that separates service workers from the people they serve. Picture to yourself a guy that you'd think of as the type to approach a sales clerk and try to strike up a conversation. Not a pretty sight, is it?
Whatever you imagined, it probably wasn't as bad as Mr. Jittery. He's one of those older guys whose disregard for the way he looks has rendered him, appearance-wise, just a short step up from "homeless": a long, unkempt beard, greasy hair, bit of a slouch, shabby clothes that could use a round or two in the wash. He is jittery, and so I refer to him as Mr. Jittery, and the jittery words that come out of his jittery mouth turn mildly disturbing in no time at all.
"I, I talked to somebody earlier, and I was looking for Selina2, and the guy I talked to said she'd called in late, and then I went to her section, and, they said she doesn't work here anymore. And, I, I just want to know, which is it, because I made some decisions based on what the guy told me..."
This is one of those situations where I don't need to get a manager, but I consult with one for show. I tell Mr. Jittery that I'm going to ask a manager what's up, but the only manager on the floor is busy with a customer so I tell him to hold on. Mr. Jittery takes this as a signal to continue talking.
"I bought a book--"
"Okay, I'm getting a manager, hold on..."
"And, and a card--"
I'm thoroughly creeped out now but I once again tell him to hold on.
"I think I talked to the black guy," and the emphasis in that sentence is used here to denote an undertone of intense and undying racial hatred that if not for the constraints of law and cowardice would manifest itself in lynchings and beatings and spontaneous blackface minstrel shows. It is possible that I am imagining this.
"Okay well, hold on," I repeat, and I can't deal with Mr. Jittery anymore so I decide to just break into the conversation the manager is having with the customer to ask her if there's a Selina working in the store.
She gives me a quizzical look. "I don't think so...do you mean Serena3?" It seems pretty obvious at this point that The Black Guy simply misheard "Selina," the name of somone who no longer works at the store, as "Serena," the name of somebody who called in late on Wednesday.
"It's possible, I dunno. In any case, this nutjob over here is looking for her and he says he was told she doesn't work here anymore, so I'm just gonna confirm that, okay?"
I get the go-ahead and return to the desk to give the bad news to Mr. Jittery, who gives me a look that I imagine would have been the preface to a hangin' back in the old days.
"Well," he pulls out a bag, "I need to return this," and out of the bag he produces a book, gift-wrapped by one of our talented BN cashiers. On the wrapping paper, in big, child-like letters, is written "SELINA". It has exactly the right mixture of utter guilelessness and abject desperation that screams "this guy follows girls home and hallucinates that he's marrying them as he mutilates their vaginas."
"Okay, you can return it at the cashiers."
"I need to return the card, too," he continues. "But I wrote on it. Can I return a card if I wrote on it?"
It's all I can do to keep from laughing. "No, sir. If you wrote on it they won't let you return it."
"They won't?" There's that look again. The if-you-were-my-servant-I-would-whip-you-for-this look.
One of the great pleasures of my job is telling people, unambiguously, "no." No other options, no number you can call, no manager to plead with. Just "no." So I do it.
Mr. Jittery just stands there as if pondering the cruel hand that life has dealt him. I decide that this guy's creepy and crazy and I might as well just see what I can get away with.
"What'd you get her?"4
He straightens up and tells me it's none of my business, obviously shocked at my temerity. Evidently deciding that I can no longer help him, Mr. Jittery proceeds to the cashiers to conduct his business.
"It's never good-looking guys, either," a manager laments as soon as Mr. J is out of earshot.
"Well," I say by way of attempting to put it all in perspective, "you can be attractive and still be crazy."
"Yeah, but, I mean, like, someone who looks like Tom Cruise, they're usually not psychos."
"Tom Cruise? Nice example."
She laughs, then is called to the cashiers. I find out a few minutes later that she was called there because Mr. Jittery insisted on getting a refund on the card he'd written on. He didn't get one.
1 Granted, I sort of have a thing for Claire Danes.
2 This name has been changed.
3 This name has also been changed.
4 A subsequent conversation with The Black Guy revealed that, had things not gone so horribly, horribly awry, Selina would have been the lucky recipient of The Tale of Genji.
posted by Dktr. Blasphemy at 2:36 AM
1 Comments:
i have to say i'm a little concerned that Mr. Jittery will return to the store to find Serena/Selina is still employed by B&N and will take out his anger on the smug ethnic boy at the help desk who lied to him. you might be in for some intense fist shaking.
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