Look Me in the Eye and Ask Me Again

Portraits of People I Never Asked to Know

By: Jaime Church 

I was working the other day. Not even the other day, actually. It was today. Everything I’m about to tell you happened to me today. Saying it happened the other day puts some hypothetical emotional distance between me and the crap they have us put up with, but I guess it's useless to try to pretend it doesn’t sting as if it didn’t happen today. Because it did. Anyway it doesn't really matter, other than I’ll probably be more dramatic than I need to be and someone will tell me to relax. And by someone I mean my dad. And he’s absolutely right. Because what lame, privileged chick works a totally regular job, only to go home and complain and fester about it? I don’t like being referred to as a chick, by the way. One of the worst things ever. I’m a full fledged human, a woman and everything. But I’m trying to reclaim the term, you know? But I think you can only reclaim the term if you’re obviously not a chick. Like if I was a lawyer, or a doctor or something, it would be funny to call me a chick since I’d be like this cool, powerful, smart woman and “chick” wouldn’t suit me at all. But I’m not those things. So the irony in reclaiming the term isn’t going as well as I’d like. And anyway, back to my dad, I don’t really want to relax. I want to think and ruminate and plan and laugh about my day. It’s my only choice really. How else am I going to come up with the motivation to go back tomorrow if I can’t laugh about today? 

So anyway, I’m working. I’m a sales girl, by the way. I hate telling people that. I hate it so much. Because honestly, I fit the bill pretty well. When you tell someone something about yourself and they’re left underwhelmed, you pretty much just want to go hurl yourself into an ice cold lake somewhere and leave your frozen corpse to sink to the bottom for bottom-feeders to feed upon. And it’s pretty underwhelming to tell people you’re a sales associate. It’s a pretty common job. And not that everyone in the world would be that good at it, but if you’ve got at least two brain cells that can keep each other company, you can probably get a job as a sales associate. You must think I’m the worst sales girl in the world. I swear I’m not this lame in person, and especially not when I’m on the clock. When I’m on the clock I’m as cute as a bug's ear. I talk in a voice 3 octaves above my regular speaking voice and I smile like 95% of the time. I’m super helpful and I thank people about a million times and I profusely apologize for things that I have absolutely no control over and and I compliment and laugh and then I go in back and scream in my head till my eyes are all bloodshot then I laugh about and I come back out and I get a different size for Heather because she really can’t decide between the small or extra small and this is a really important decision and she needs me. 

Thank God I’m there to help. Heather, I think you’re better off in the extra small. You’re so petite. She agrees. Because all short women love to complain about how teeny tiny they are and how embarrassing it is they fit into a children's clothes and they use tissues as duvet covers and their boyfriends literally have to bend down to kiss them! It’s so embarrassing. She’s literally beaming as she says all this. I wonder how old she is. 45? 50? Maybe she's a really bad 40 or a really good 55. I’m going to guess she is 115 pounds. Light enough to pick up pretty easily. Like I bet I could carry her on my back for a solid amount of time if I had to. A man should be able to do it no problem. One time I tried getting a lift from a guy about my age. It was bad. Like, he was obviously struggling, which made the whole situation astronomically awkward for the both of us. I’m going to have to go ahead and assume he was just weak as hell. Because while I’m definitely a tall chick, I’m not solid or anything. Like, not to enforce traditional masculine roles upon cis men or anything, but like, but he really should have been able to lift me. But that’s neither here nor there. But the point is I’m no Heather. I don’t wear anything extra small. I refrain from telling her that I don’t fit into children's clothes and I use regular duvet covers and I’m the same height as the average man in the U.S. so it’s not really a big issue for me if they had to bend down or not. Instead I smile and offer her the same size in a different color, and she really has to think about this, because it’s a super big and super important question, and finally she agrees that perhaps I could bring her the dark blue? Of course. I go stand in the back room again until my eyes are red. Which actually only takes like 25 seconds, so then I don’t have an aesthetic excuse to not do my job anymore so I go and actually get the blue sweater. 

I had another funny woman today. I would use a fake name instead of her real one, but honestly, her real name is probably more common than any fake one I could come up with. So anyway Laura came in with a return. A belt. You can usually tell how much shit a woman is going to give you by the amount of perfume she’s wearing. I could smell this woman before I saw her. And I swear I could hear her before she even opened her mouth. I sort of shifted away from the register, like I literally started scooting backwards into a corner in the men's section hoping that my slow movements would render me invisible, but alas, it was of no use. She spotted me like a literal sniper and I was a tiny bunny 400 meters away. And we both knew she was mad, and we both knew it was about to become my problem, and we both knew that I would never be able to provide the emotional relief she was obviously so desperate for, let alone the validation for whatever choices she had made in her life leading up to this point, but still, she marched forward staring me right in the eye. She was drafting me to war, was what she was doing. Or maybe I was already in the war and she was just a bullet. And just after I was finally able to break free from her gaze and frantically search the sales floor for another associate who might be able to cover me while I sprinted into no man's land, I realized I had been abandoned. There was nobody in this store but me and Laura and one billion sweaters and the weird aura of a brand that you can definitely tell is past its heyday, but kudos to them for trying anyway. I don’t even blame my coworkers for scattering. I’d probably done the same thing. But it didn’t change the fact that Laura and I were about to get down and dirty. 

She told me that she didn’t want to return the belt, that she doesn’t usually do this sort of thing, and that she really is a loyal customer and all, but as you can see right here, there is a scuff on this belt that simply makes it unwearable. In fact, it makes it hideous. The worst part is that she really means what she’s saying. Like, her heart and soul is in every word that she’s delivering with this weird breathy quality. After she hands me the wretched belt that sends literal chills down her spine, I offer her a different style or size or whatever other random corporate jargon I’m paid to say. It was no use. Poor Laura had had enough. She had been through the ‘ole belt ringer. A terrible ringer to be through if you’re a middle aged wealthy white woman. I apologized profusely for the scuff. I agreed that this standard of quality is simply unacceptable, and that I would personally step it up to make sure our valued customers never have such a grotesque experience again. I think this consoled her a little bit. Especially coming from someone so sincere. In that moment, I think she loved me. I wondered what her home life was like. I wondered how many other belts she probably owned. Who else had heard this tragic tale before me. Laura, you’re doing your best. How were you to know this belt would have a scuff? You’re doing the strong thing by returning it. And you’re being vulnerable to this random sales girl who genuinely cares. That takes guts, Laura. You’ve done well. You should probably do something to celebrate. In fact, you should probably buy something to celebrate. You should probably buy something from this store, in fact. You should buy something today, even now, and make sure that I get the commission. Yes, that will be good. Let me get a fitting room started for you. She agreed. And I hate myself for offering, and I hate her for accepting. 

Not every customer is bad. Take Jerry, for example. He came in today too. An older gentleman. He complimented my penny loafers. He seemed pretty sharp. And by that, I mostly mean that if I had to guess his tax bracket, it would be several, several notches above mine. And didn’t snipe me down when he needed help. Actually, I don't think he ever even asked for help. He just stood helplesslessly in the men's section holding some corduroy pants like a limp fish that would be the last meal of his life before he withered away in a sea of polyester. I probably wouldn’t have offered to help at all had he not looked so sad. And I knew I was definitely taller than him, which meant he’d probably take my advice more seriously. So I decided to help. Noble of me, yes? Like, I know it’s my literal job to go chew the cud with these folks, but it was sort of late in the day at this point and it was hard to know if I would regret offering my services. So I go over. I say hi and everything, being extra charming. You know what he hits me with? “How do these fit in the crotch?” 

I just looked him in the eye for a while. Jerry, look me in the eye and ask me again. I’m not really sure if he’s expecting a realistic answer. But he is. He is putting all his faith in this 22 year old girl about how these corduroy pants will fit his old crotch. I almost laughed. I wanted to lie. A positive answer would have been a lie, so why not use a negative one that is just as much of a lie. They’re really going to pinch your nuts, Jerry, to tell you the truth. Yeah they’re going to bunch up in all the wrong places and it’s going to make you super self conscious. Trust me. Just the other day I was wondering what these mens pants felt like so I tried them on in every size and every color and every style. And you know what? They totally didn’t fit in the crotch. I really don’t know why. I may never know. Poor old Jerry, he really wants to know. And not only can I not provide him with my own opinion or expertise, I can’t reference anyone else's. Because you know what I don’t do? Go around asking my male co-workers if they’ve tried the mens 440 corduroy and if they have, how did they fit in the crotch? A little tight? Or maybe a little loose? This might come as a huge shock, Jerry, but that’s not information I have fresh off my dome. So anyway. We just looked at each other for a bit. And after I hum for a little bit like a microwave, I finally offer to look up the reviews online to see if any other clients have had similar questions. He agrees that’ll work. I got my ipad and we sat and scrolled for a couple minutes. 

I say that Jerry is one of the good customers because at least he made me laugh, if only in my head. And like aforementioned, he complimented my penny loafers. And unlike some of the women we get in, he didn’t look at me with some sort of slight disapproval because I’m younger than him and my joints work properly. That is to say, I don’t think he was all too jealous of me in any particular way. He seemed pretty content with his age. And I mean, he was obviously comfortable enough in his own skin to ask a somewhat sensitive question. So I have a lot of respect for old Jerry. He didn’t take anything from me. He just asked a question and I did my best to answer. I could help him all day. 

But luckily I didn’t have to. Because as much as I would have loved to stick around, the clock did in fact tick away and eventually I was off. And as much as I would have loved to stay and listen to weird remixes of 90’s songs that are played just loud enough to hear but just quiet enough to miss every other word, I had to go home. The store would have to survive without me. Poor Heather and Laura. I hope they’re doing well. And Jerry. He didn’t buy the pants, by the way. We researched every single pair in the store before he decided he’ll have to think it over. “It’s just important for me to be comfortable,” he told me. I nodded like this was a novel take on clothing and he was super authentic and original in admitting something so true. So we didn’t rush into any purchases or anything. I wonder if any of them ever think about me once they’ve left the store. Not like in a self-centered way. I don’t care if their opinion on me is good or bad. But sometimes I wonder if they really think we’re there for fun. Honestly, if I wasn’t broke, I would be there for fun. It’s a good time, really. I’ll go back tomorrow just to make sure.