stay calm

The exchange policy at the store where I work is strict. We require the customers to initial their copy of the receipt, to indicate that the exchange policy was explained to them by a sales associate. One day I was working with a coworker, a tiny woman from Ethiopia. A customer came in: an enormous woman with a huge set of headphones clamped over her ears and a teensy tight halter dress that was stretched to its limits. This woman was expressionless and had eyes like a fish: glassy, unfocused, staring straight ahead. She ignored me when I twice approached her to greet her and ask if she needed help. After a few minutes, she grabbed a short dress in a medium and flung it onto the counter. I rattled off the exchange policy to her. She made no eye contact, and I could tell that she hadn’t heard me. I paused with the ticket in my hand and recited the policy again. Finally, she reached up and pulled the headphones away from her ears. Once more I told her the policy, and she clamped the headphones back on without acknowledging that she’d heard me. I rang the dress up, she paid in cash, and I handed her the receipt and a pen: “If you could just initial here, indicating that you understand the exchange policy.” Commence the breaking loose of all hell. The woman leaned over the counter and began screaming. “YOU’RE NOT GETTING MY SIGNATURE ON NOTHING, YOU F-ING B-! I AIN’T STEALING NOTHING! I PAID FOR THIS! YOU CAN’T SAY I’M STEALING NOTHING, YOU F-ER! F- YOU, B-! CRACKER! B-S! YOU CRACKERS!” (“Crackers” being addressed to the both of us, myself and my coworker, with a broad sweep of arms. Apparently now we’re importing our crackers from Ethiopia. I was tempted to clarify that, being from Appalachia, I am not a cracker but a hillbilly.) Of course, I tried to explain to her that she didn’t have to sign anything, just initial it, and that we didn’t keep it; it was hers. But she was too busy screaming to listen. My poor tiny little coworker was cowering and shaking, and the enormous, ranting, howling, arm-waving lunatic was getting more and more agitated, leaning closer and closer over me (who was, at the time, all of 115 pounds). And you know what? It was all I could do not to laugh. My father used to throw fits just like that (he was paranoid schizophrenic) and it terrified me. After he left I spent several years on anti-anxiety pills to keep me from panicking when I was around people who were angry or aggressive. But for some reason, with this woman, who outweighed me as much as my father did when I was a toddler, I wasn’t scared a bit. I reached under the counter, picked up the phone, and asked security to send someone. They could hear her bellowing over the phone. “Please remain calm, ma’am, we’ve got an officer on his way up right now. Stay on the line. It’s going to be all right.” “Oh, I know it’s all right,” I said. “She just has a problem with the exchange policy.” Realizing that security was on its way, the woman grabbed a pen, swiped a line across the receipt, took the dress and made for the door. On her way out, she paused, turned, and, with a grand gesture, shouted: “I don’t even LIKE white people!” My coworker slumped down behind the counter, saying, “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.” I started laughing. Two customers who had been hunching timidly in line behind the woman approached, wide-eyed, and told me that they’d be glad to sign anything I gave them.