One thing that can get my Mama up on her indignant high horse quicker than anything has always been customer service, or the lack thereof.
Growing up, I learned to bristle anytime a retail clerk told Mama it was not their job or their department.
She would make a sharp inhaling sound as she drew her hand up in the shape of C.
“Do you see this C? It stands for customer. That is what I am. And the customer is always right!”
The salesgirl would normally scurry off in search of someone in a higher pay scale to deal with the crazy redhead, as Mama stood her proverbial ground, Virginia Slim in hand.
Mama pulled out the C once when we were shopping for a debutante ball gown.
Going shopping for a formal required a trip to a mall other than Georgia Square, so we took a day – a whole day-- off from school and work to go.
Even Granny went, figuring we would need protection, deliverance or bail money if we ventured outside the county line.
After trodding through multiple stores, Granny decided to go back to the car.
“She ain’t never gonna find a dress she likes,” the old gal declared. “I ain’t never seen such a wishy-washy child.”
I was not wishy-washy; I just knew what I liked and so far, had not seen it.
Finally, after going into several more stores, I found it. A royal blue strapless dress with a full, fluffy skirt.
“This is the one I want,” I said.
“You need to try it on first,” Mama said. “I am not going through this again if you need to bring it back.” She grabbed the hanger only to find the dress secured to the rack by some locked cable.
I guess shoplifting mountains of taffeta and tulle was a thing in the ‘80s.
There was no sales clerk in the immediate area, so Mama went to the closest department where she saw an employee.
“Would you please call someone who can unlock the formal wear to come help us, please?” she asked.
The girl didn’t even look up but continued to pick her cuticles.
“That’s not my department,” she said.
“Excuse me?” Mama said.
“I said, that’s not my department.”
Double uh oh.
Mama bristled and pulled herself up to her full height. “I didn’t ask you what your department was. I asked you to call someone for that department.”
The girl looked up long enough to roll her eyes. “You will need to go find someone yourself.”
That was it. The final straw. The comment that broke the crazy redhead’s sense of decorum.
“I will not go find someone. I already did, and I asked her --- that’s you, in case you missed it – to call someone. I do not have an intercom to page someone. And if I did, I would be paging the manager!” Her hand came up, making the C and I knew what was coming. “Do you see this C? Do you know what it stands for?”
I bolted out the door and across the parking lot, hoping I could find Granny.
I found the old gal, sitting in her Oldsmobile, eating cookies.
I banged on the window, startling her. “What in the devil is wrong? You almost made me drop my snickerdoodle.”
“Mama is doing the C,” I began breathlessly. And when did she get the cookies? “I found the dress, but Mama is going after some sales girl in luggage.”
Granny frowned and put her cookie back in the bag in her purse. “Lord, have mercy. Let’s go save that poor girl.”
Mama was schooling the store manager on customer service when we returned. “Where have you been?” she asked me when she saw me. She shoved pounds of blue taffeta at me. “Go try it on. Now.”
In the dressing room, I could hear her continued barrage. “Maybe if you had enough people working, I would not have had to walk to another department. Did you think about that? It is the holidays. You need to be properly staffed to meet customer needs.”
We got the dress and left, Mama fussing all the way home about how people no longer took pride in their jobs and didn’t have a clue about customer service.
“You need to be nicer to the sales clerks, Jean,” Granny said.
“They need to be nicer to customers!” Mama retorted.
“That poor girl was probably making minimum wage and you were chastising her – it was not her department. She was in luggage.”
“You missed the whole thing, Mama. I asked her to call someone to that department; she was too busy watching her nails grow to help me. I am nice. I am beyond nice. But the reason she has a job is to help customers.”
When I worked in retail, Mama’s lectures on good customer service stayed in my mind.
And the holidays could be the worst.
I would be in the middle of a sales floor, sometimes with just one other employee, trying to help scores and hordes of customers.
People would get upset. Some would be frustrated if they had to wait in line. We were short staffed, overworked, underpaid, and usually out of whatever they wanted to buy.
But none, not one, gave me the C.
I made sure I was courteous and cordial, and not once did I say, “not my job.” I thanked all the customers with a smile and wished them a Merry Christmas.
I did have over 20 years of prior training.
The other day, a friend posted a graphic on Facebook reminding people that retail workers were away from their own holiday celebrations when they were waiting on them and that patience and politeness were important.
Maybe I should send a copy to Mama.