We've been putting off buying the tires, because as all car owners know, four new tires add up quickly to a staggering sum. But it made sense to do it before the snow flies, and I had a new store credit card for a national chain that was supposed to get me a 5% discount; I had the cash to pay the credit card off on the spot; and I had a handful of those slips of paper that the register spits out when you buy anything at this chain, which supposedly will get you a further discount. It never works out that way - there are a million exceptions to the offers, and frankly, it's a classic bait-and-switch.
But the salespeople are invariably kind, hardworking, service-oriented people who do their best to accommodate your requests and expectations, despite the fact that they are hog-tied by company policy if they want to retain their jobs. But one thing that goes with this job is that customers get crabby when they don't get the discount they're expecting. I seemed to have walked in on the tail end of one of those conversations this morning.
From my place in line, I could see the back of the woman customer's shoulder-length hair, and the tired face of the sales associate. Although it was only 8:30 a.m., he looked like he'd already had a long day.
"I'm doing my best for you, ma'am," he was saying in that lovely lilting accent that means a childhood spent in Jamaica. "I'm just saying - people have to understand. You get up. You go to work. You have a good attitude when you leave your house, and you want to give people good service. And then some people think they can treat you any which way, just to save five dollars. I'm just trying to tell you, there's only so much I can do."
To her credit, the woman seemed abashed into better behavior. She finished her business without an argument and quietly took her departure.
Now it was my turn.
It was not my best morning of the year either, for reasons I'll go into later. But now I had a choice. I could either sour this man's day still more, or I could try to lift us both into a better frame of mind.
I looked him in the eye, gave him my best smile, and told him what I was there for. He nodded wearily and came out from behind the desk. As he fell into step beside me, I blurted, "Excuse me. I couldn't help overhearing the end of that last conversation, and I see your day got off to a rough start. I think you need a hug."
And I gave him a hug.
He looked a bit surprised, but the ghost of a smile formed at the corner of his lips, and he thanked me. A little alacrity came into his step as we went outside to inspect my tires.
Of course, the tire change cost a lot more than I had budgeted for when my husband and I looked at the website. Which was not a surprise, because it always does cost a lot more. The website doesn't tell you about things like the "valve kit" and the "state environmental fee" and so naturally you can't have the slightest idea how much you're actually going to wind up paying. And yes, it's a shame, and yes, it's a nasty surprise. But it's not the fault of the sales associate.
So we went back inside, and he ran some estimates for me, and gave me some sound advice on what would be best for my particular car. As he clicked away on the keyboard, I watched his hands. One hand was missing its middle finger - there was a stump just above the knuckle, right below where the first joint ought to be. The index finger was heavily scarred, though the scars were clean and well-healed. Long ago, this man had had a traumatic accident. A terrible day involving a lot of unanticipated pain, and a slow recovery that meant learning to live without a part of himself he'd always taken for granted up till that moment.
I called my husband, gave him the estimates, and he said not to get the tires yet, because he wanted to check a few websites once he got to the office. The fact that my husband was able to get up and go to the office at all on this day, November 3rd, is in itself such a miracle that I wasn't going to argue, so I said okay, hung up, thanked the sales associate (whom by now I was mentally terming "my friend") and said I would be back if we didn't find a much better deal, which, of course, being a man who pays bills, he understood. He shook my hand fervently, wished me a beautiful day, and made sure I knew which days he'd be on duty so that he could be available to make sure I got the best possible service.
I said, "I'll bring you a cup of coffee if I come back and get them here," and he said, "I don't drink coffee - I like hot chocolate."
By the time I got home, my husband was calling to say that after some comparison shopping, he'd decided that I might as well go back and get those tires after all, because they were a fair deal. Which was what my new friend had been telling me all along.
So I made a cup of hot chocolate - the kind I used to make for my son when he'd had a long day at school and the weather was horrible and he came home exhausted and in need of some pampering. Two spoonfuls of Dutch cocoa, two of sugar, plenty of milk, finished off with a good-sized glug of heavy cream. As I stirred it together, I thought about one of those inspirational slogans I'd recently seen online -
Be the Reason Somebody Smiles Today
I hopped in the car, drove back, and was greeted by a huge smile that got even bigger when I handed over the hot chocolate. My friend was smiling like he meant it, and that put a smile on my face, too. He did his best to get me every discount he possibly could, went to bat to get me 10% off on aligning the front tires, and gave me the best service of my life.
I knew it wasn't about the hot chocolate. It was about the fact that somebody on the other side of the counter had taken the time to see him as a person, another human being - instead of just a visible extension of a huge corporate entity that had to be harangued and bludgeoned into coughing up discounts.
After I'd paid for everything, he shook hands again and thanked me once more. I thanked him for all the effort he'd put forth on my behalf.
I thought about whether or not to tell him what was on my mind, but decided against it. Instead, I just smiled and said, "Promise me you'll remember - you can start your day over at any time."
I never did tell him the thing I was really grateful for: The fact that today, on the second anniversary of my stepdaughter's death, my trying to make his day a little nicer had given me something to smile about.
My stepdaughter had been a server in a national restaurant chain. She'd battled clinical depression for much of her life before her death at the age of 23. Once in awhile, she'd mention that it was difficult to keep smiling and provide good service when customers got nasty or impatient. But she always showed up at her job with the aim of giving the best service she possibly could, and she never missed a day of work.
Not all our scars are visible upon the body.
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