Issue #6

Good Eggs

Tis the season to consider the sales associate. Overly intrusive or obtusely uninterested, too slow or too hurried, nowhere to be found or hovering over your shoulder, they can grate, especially when Amazon offers seamless commerce, no personal engagement required. A bad interaction with a clerk can end in a cry-in-the-car rage. I speak of salespeople who don’t make eye contact, are rude, snobby or incompetent, who know nothing about what they’re selling, who don’t care if you come or go or wait or find your size.

But mostly I want to speak of the other salespeople, the bulk of them. The ones who give you honest opinions, who say, no, that jumpsuit doesn’t suit you. The ones who show how the smallest adjustment makes all the difference, who roll the sleeves, tie the sash like this. The ones at Home Depot who find solutions to strange problems. The ones in the shoe department who bring you five boxes and say nary a word when you leave with none of them. The ones who know exactly what aisle among 56 aisles that glue-gun sticks are on. The ones who know their product well and are proud of it.

Indeed I come not to bury sales associates but to praise them.

Take picture framers, for instance. I’ve never had a bad time with a picture framer. They usually have second lives as artists—even if you don’t inquire, you can tell they are artists by their workaday hands and eye for color. Their thinking is sensible and mathematical. They’ll show you twenty different shades of beige matting and bring in another framer to weigh in on the best color and pull every frame off the wall to make sure you’ve considered all the options.

Lingerie salespeople are uniformly excellent too. I’ll never forget the kind woman twenty years ago fitting me for a brassiere after my reconstruction. The dressing-room situation made me as shy as a 12-year-old in doctor’s exam, but my salesclerk was tactful and encouraging. She was almost a nurse, the way she handled sizing and what I’ll call, for lack of a better term, proper bra-putting-on. I left with beautiful underwear that I kept for 15 years at least and a strong feeling that goodness reigned in the world.

Just last week I ran into Nordstrom and encountered another retail wonder. “I have a half an hour to find something to wear for a burial,” I told the elegant salesclerk. “It’s freezing outside so I need something warm enough but I don’t want to spend a million bucks.” She quickly ushered me out of the section she worked in and across the store directly to the two or three racks that had exactly what I needed. That may seem like a small thing, but I had packed in a rush a few days earlier to catch a plane and I had nothing appropriate to wear. Her efficiency was important.

A few days later I ventured into Party City, a store I consider a preview of hell. Aisle after aisle of bright, shiny and overpriced merchandise. The joyless, soul-sucking atmosphere of forced fun. The white linoleum floor reflecting overhead lights as if it were an emergency room for streamers and matching plastic cups. Party City always makes me feel instantly exhausted, beaten down, and in the end, so brain-dead I might decide that yes, I’d better get the coordinating plastic straws, just in case.

At the counter the salesclerk rang up my balloons.

You’re giving a party? she asked.

Baby shower, for my niece.

Aw, that’s sweet, she said.

And I could have left it at that. She didn’t ask for any more information, and I am not usually much of a talker. But there was no one else in the store. And there was something in her face, so gentle and soft. I wanted to tell her more. That the baby shower was a much-needed happy celebration for my family because we had just buried my sister.

Oh your sister! she said, her hand on her heart. That’s so sad.

She was the youngest of 11.

How old was she—

Josie was 57—

And if you don’t mind my asking, what did she die of—

Breast cancer.

I told her other things, how funny Josie was and how beautiful and how brave and how she never complained, not once, and how everyone who met Josie was drawn to her and how much all her siblings and in-laws and nieces and nephews and especially her daughters loved her. I wasn’t crying. I think I was just feeling proud of my sister and I wanted this nice young woman to know how great she was.

She listened with sympathy, making noises of condolence. If I had it in me to scoot across the counter and bury my head in her big bosom and weep, I would have. She was that kind of person.

When I was done talking, she said, simply, I’m so sorry.

I knew she really was sorry. Later that evening she might tell the story to her roommate or mother or boyfriend. Even now, two weeks later, she might remember my flat tone, my dead expression, even as I remember hers, bright and smiling.

She handed me my bag of balloons with a sympathetic smile. Then her training kicked in.

Happy holidays! she said.

(Josie would appreciate the absurdity.)

Happy holidays to you too, I said. Sweetheart, I thought. I blessed her in my soul.

And I bless all of them, all the salespeople of my past and future, those who have shared moments of vulnerability, those who became, for the space of a few minutes, my intimate friends, those who shared a joy and helped me through a sorrow.

You are the patient gardeners of our frantic purchasing, the last outpost of humanity in the cold emporiums of commerce and consumption.

A Really Great Egg

Someday I’ll write about Josie because I want you all to know her too. But for now, I’ll leave you with a picture.