The 12 Days of Retail Christmas: Elephantitis Man

Mike Rowe, I've got a
dirty job for you--
retail customer service. 

I smelled him before I saw him, which is never a good sign.  The man wobbled toward me, almost a large scale version of Wheezy from Toy Story, only instead of being shelved for losing his squeaker, this man had been isolated for his smell.  Eu de toilette.  Only literally, like a toilet.  Even the insane pulsating throngs of Black Friday shoppers repulsed away from him in disgust.  He waddled straight for my register, ignoring the twenty people already in line.  They attempted to shout their disapprovals, but they too, smelled and saw it.  The man was shoplifting basketballs.  At least two were shoved down his disgusting manure soaked overalls.

"Billy," he said while reading my nametag, which clearly stated, "Chris."  

"Uh, no.  I'm Chris.  You want me to get Billy?"  I barely was able to say as even my weak sense of smell was overpowered.

"Billy, is that you Billy?" He asked again. After the fifth time he asked me it became apparent that he had no idea how to read, or how to interpret "no, I'm Chris."

Myself, selling some hot chick a BBQ in 2003.
  One positive from working at Sears: I met my wife there. 

Finally, giving up, ready to call store security the minute he walked away from my register, I asked "What can I do for you?"

"I've come for my watch."

This was odd, because I was a Sears Hardware associate. My isles of responsibility were filled with tool boxes and Craftsman hand tools and ringing up the occasional weed wacker or telephone.  Jewelry, like watches, never made it out of Department 42.  Those jewelry ladies were insane about their two percent commission.

I glanced around for Billy, my on the floor sales trainer just two months earlier.  The guy was a selling maniac.  He would routinely sell $5000 of merchandise a day.  At our commission rate of 1-3%, he was making good money for a lowly retail associate.  And he never took breaks.  He was just at register #1, ten feet to my right, not willing to give it away, knowing that the front cash registers had lines all day long on these magical commission days.

I hate getting slimed by smells.  

Now Natasha, and not Billy was manning the desirable register, and she was frantically working customers through her line as I was preoccupied with the manure-overalls-guy. During the doorbuster deals, it's almost impossible to even look up, as our groggy mornings were completely filled with scanning merchandise and saying, "I'm sorry, we all out of that...no we aren't doing rainchecks." I broke the conveyer belt of customer/clerk basic chit-chat by asking "Hey Natasha, where's Billy?"

Without glancing up, or slowing her scanning prowess, she replied, "I don't know, he just went on break a minute ago and let me have this register."

That didn't seem like Billy.  I overhead paged him, "Billy, please call 7009."  About a minute later (although next to the smell of my new friend the basketball thief, it seemed like an eternity) Billy replied on the phone, "it's under the cash wrap."

"What is?"

"His pocket watch."

In-store collectables,
losing their value the minute
they walk out the store since
1981.  

I looked under the registers as he said it, and there it was, a Craftsman pocket watch (a holiday exclusive), with a hold tag for Hershall.  It was probably supposed to be spelled Herschel, but after looking at the backwoodsy customer, I'm not sure his mother didn't name him "Hershawl" as in, "her shawl, sure was purty."

"Oh, thanks Billy."  I hung up, not questioning why he knew the answer to the question before I even asked it.

I looked at the customer, "is this the watch?"

He took it from me and held it like it was his precious.  I interrupted his intimate moment with his new love, "Uh, do you want me to ring that up?"

"What?"

"Do you want to buy it now?" I asked in my first grade teacher voice.

"Yeah."  He handed me twenty five dollars all in fives.  They held the smell of his front pocket.  I placed his money under my till, knowing no ordinary customer would accept his smell drenched dollars as change.  I handed him his penny and his receipt and thanked him for shopping at Sears.

He waddled away a happy man.  The customers, myself, and Natasha, suddenly free to breath normally again, all started feeling better.  I picked up the phone to call Loss Prevention (our store security).  I wasn't sure why he paid for the pocket watch and was swiping basketballs, when Billy grabbed the phone from out of my hand.

"What are you doing?" I asked him  Where were you? I have to call security, cause that guy's got merchandise stuffed down his pants; basketballs or something."

"No, those are his balls."

"What?"

Elephantitis of the legs. 

"That really stinky guy, Herschel?  I saw him coming and took off.  You're welcome.  I've dealt with him before. He and his brother have Elephantitis of the genitalia.  Their balls are literally the size of basketballs.  They come in like once a year for weird Craftsman collectables like Nascar tins or like that watch.  He called earlier and I vowed to be gone when he showed up to pick it up.  I'm sorry, Chris, but last time he showed up, I threw up at the register while he was here; and my vomiting didn't even faze him.  I think they are some weird inbred family that lives in the sticks of Marcola and drives into town only for emergencies and Craftsman promotions.  They don't know how to read, and obviously don't act normal.  So, sorry for taking off, but I got to take care of myself.  Plus, it makes a great initiation story for you.  Your first Day-after-Thanksgiving freak.  There will be plenty more."

He was right.  There would be plenty more.
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Customer service is the quickening of the maturing process.  You deal with people who nobody should have to deal with.  It should be a requirement for all Americans for at least ONE year.  Treating complete strangers with respect, despite their attitude or strange behavior, might teach us how to actually love and respect those around us who we have an actual vested interest in.

This is the first of many 100% real retail stories.  I worked at Sears for 7 years while working my way through college (no I'm not a doctor).  I originally planned on turning my memories into a book titled:
Seven Years of Purgatory: My Retail Years, but thought Sears would probably sue me.  So I'm just going to write them for free here on my blog.  I will probably novelize my experiences in five years or so, when Sears finally files chapter 7.  I'll try not to be too disrespectful to the memories of the humans I interacted with, no matter how inhumanely they treat me, or how alien they acted.

After working 7 Black Fridays, I don't miss this sight at all. 

Have a retail horror story?  Tell me in the comments section below.