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B O O K E M

Volume 1 Number 3

Author: Caroline Kent E-mail: release@ix.netcom.com

"Shhh! Be very quiet. Now listen . . . what DON'T you
hear?" One can hear the gentle rustling of pages turning,
whispered voices discussing the content of books, a muffled
cough, and soft footsteps pattering throughout the store.
"Hear it? You don't, do you? There is no screaming,
shouting, whining, or crying. No one is running, jumping, racing
or playing tag in the aisles. There is no one, absolutely no one
in this store under the age of 18. Ding, dong the kids are gone.
The noisy kids, the you-can't-get-rid-of-them kids . . . "
"Excuse me," interrupts a customer. "Could you keep your
voice down? This IS a bookstore, you know."
"I'm sorry," I reply with a smile. "I was just remarking how
lovely the atmosphere was in here since the children went back to
school." I begin humming my little ditty again.
"It appears that not all the CHILDREN are gone," he remarks
sarcastically as he saunters off.
I wiggle my finger at him. "Not even you can spoil my mood
oh-crabby-customer." I pick up a copy of "Curious George Goes to
School" and flip through the pages.
"Right now, all of the little tykes are seated at their
desks with one eye on the teacher and the other on the clock." I
glance at my watch. "Tsk, tsk," I giggle. "They've got at least
two hours to go. By that time, my shift will be over and I'll
leave the bookstore without having the pleasure of hearing one
ear piercing, bloodcurdling scream today. Darn! I don't know
how I am going to survive . . . "
"HI!"
The sound of a CHILD'S voice scares me, causing me to bump
into the life-size, inflated tyrannosaurus rex standing next to
me. "What was that?" I glance quickly in both directions,
hoping it was just a figment of my imagination.
"What's your name?" asks the voice, closer this time. I
feel a tug on my apron.
I close my eyes and say a prayer. "No, no, please let it be
just a bad dream. Maybe it's just a 30-year-old midget."
Slowly, I open my eyes and see my worst nightmare in the shape of
a six-year-old boy.
Quickly I shut my eyes again. "You're not real. I'm
hallucinating. I've been working too hard. The pressure is
getting to me. When I open my eyes again, you'll be gone."
I open my eyes and see "Freddy" eyeing the inflated dinosaur. "Is that a real dinosaur?" he asks heading toward the prop
which is part of the promotion for Michael Crighton's new book
"The Lost World," the sequel to "Jurassic Park."
I throw myself in front of the dinosaur and try to distract
the beast . . . that is, the child not the dinosaur.
"Dinosaur? What dinosaur? Dinosaurs are extinct, you know.
We have quite a lovely selection of books on dinosaurs that will
explain exactly how it happened. Let me show you where they
are." I start to physically drag the child away from the display.
"Can I ride him?"
"Can you ride . . . no, you most certainly cannot! This is
not a toy . . . hey, get down off of there!"
"Wheeee! Faster, faster!" He kicks his heels into the side
of the dinosaur.
"You're going to break him," I admonish trying to pull the
boy off the dinosaur's back. "Where's your mother? If you were
my kid, I'd put you over my knee and . . . "
"Is Richard bothering you?"
I turn and see a petite, blonde woman standing with her
hands on her hips.
She shakes her head. "Boys will be boys. Come on Richard,
it's time to go."
"But mom!"
"No but's. I think you're upsetting this nice young lady."
I smile at the lady while silently reviewing my knowledge of
curse words.
"Oh, ok," Richard climbs off of the dinosaur but not before
giving him a final kick. Air begins to hiss out of dino's right
side and slowly he starts to shrink.
As I futilely begin blowing air back into the dinosaur, all
memory of "the customer is always right" disappears.
"What's the matter with parents today?" I scream while
sealing the fifty minute holes with tape. "Kids today have no
respect for the property of others. If I had done this when I
was a child, I'd have been taken behind the barn for a
switching. In my day, it wasn't called child abuse. It was good
old-fashioned discipline. That's exactly what your child needs."
I grab the closest tool that I can find which happens to be a
yardstick.
"Where did he go?" I snarl, with hatred in my eyes.
The boy is hiding behind his mother who is desperately
trying to calm me down.
"Please, don't hurt him. He's just a little boy. I'll pay
you for any damages." She opens her purse and pulls out a twenty.
Taking a deep breath, I consider whether I would get more
satisfaction out of taking the money or beating the child. Just
as I am about to accept the payment, the delinquent peers around
his mother and sticks his tongue out at me.
"I got you now, you . . . you . . . CHILD!" I grab him,
flip him over my knee, and prepare to spank him.
"Excuse me, Caroline." Bettina, our newest recruit taps me
on the shoulder.
"Not now, Bettina. Can't you see that I'm busy?" I raise my
hand again and aim for the target.
"Guess what I did?" Bettina continues, as if I hadn't
spoken. "Guess, guess, guess?"
I pause and look at Bettina. Richard squirms off of my lap
and he and his mother make a bee-line for the door.
"Damn," I curse and give Bettina a look that could kill. "He
got away." I shrug my shoulders. "He's lucky this time. But if
he ever shows his face in this town, er, bookstore again . . ."
"You still didn't guess," Bettina interrupts.
"OK!" I say, turning my attention to Bettina. "What did you
do? Or should I be afraid to ask?"
"I snuffed her out," Bettina says with a smile.
"You snuffed her out," I repeat with a shake of my head. "Am
I supposed to understand what the HECK you are talking about?"
"The secret shopper," Bettina explains. "She may have looked
like an ordinary customer but I was on to her when she paid for
her $10.00 book, gave me a hundred and told me to keep the
change. Can't pull one over on ole Betty. No siree."
I glance around the store. "I didn't see anyone in here but
that woman and her tyrannical tot."
"Wasn't he just adorable?" Bettina sighs. "As soon as I
found out that he belonged to the shopper, I gave him a big
lollipop and told him he could eat it in the store and . . . "
"Stop," I interrupt. "Go back. What did you just say?"
Bettina thinks for a moment. "I said that he could eat it
in the store and . . . "
"No, no, no," I yell. "Before that."
"Oh, you mean the part about him being the secret shopper's
son? Wasn't he cute?"
I leave Bettina rambling about the sweet attributes of the
child and race to the window. The woman is sitting on a bench
outside the store and is writing furiously on a pad. She spies
me and smiles nastily.
"I'm doomed, doomed, doomed," I cry leaning my forehead on
the pane.
"Wasn't I clever?" Bettina asks, waving to the lady outside.

It's a Secret

Do you have a gut feeling that your sales associates goof
off the minute you walk out the door? Is the phone always busy
when you call the store? Are customers complaining about the
lack of service? You can answer these questions by renting a
disguise from your local costume shop and spying on your help.
An easier method is to hire the services of a secret
shopper. A secret shopper is basically a professional snoop. He
or she will walk into a designated store, pretend to be a
customer and check to see if the employees are doing their job
correctly.
A secret shopper's dream is to catch an employee stealing.
If Joe Clerk is taking money out of the register and putting it
in his pocket, he'd better have a good excuse because a shopper
just might have his actions documented. I don't think "the bill
was torn and the tape was in the office" will win many brownie
points from the boss.
A clerk can't assume that he or she is safe because the only
person in the store is a nice, little-old-lady who looks like
someone's grandmother. Shoppers come in a variety of ages and
the seasoned folks are the ones to watch out for. Older people
who lived through the depression strongly believe in the work
ethic. To them, spending more than five minutes in the bathroom
is considered slacking off.
Luckily for us hardworking Americans who believe that a
little fun goes a long way, secret shoppers tend to give
themselves away by asking unusual questions.
"If I buy this $5.99 book can I write you a check for a
thousand dollars and get the difference in change?" will probably
set off a warning signal in Dora DoLittle's brain.
Shoppers will stare at a name badge in order to remember a
clerk's identity. If a customer pulls out a pencil and starts
writing down "Balthasar Mehailescu" you can bet it's not because
he wants to put you in his will.
Shoppers love to test a clerk's patience.
"I'd like a list of every book that was ever written with
the word "the" in the title. Could you alphabetize that for me
in descending order by author? Try and hurry because I only have
fifteen minutes." Shoppers especially love to pull this routine
at closing time just to see an associate squirm.
To avoid getting a bad report, a sales associate should try
to be nice to everyone. You'll never get a negative write-up
from a shopper if you always smile and sing a happy tune. Of
course, they might question your sanity.

I remove my head from the window pane and trudge over to
where dino lies in a shrunken heap. I swoop up his remains and
stuff them into the trash can.
"I need a break," I announce to Bettina, who is making
gurgling noises to a baby in a stroller.
"Isn't she cute?" Bettina says, offering her finger to the
infant's outstretched hand. "I would love to have one just like
her."
"I'm going next door to buy a Coke," I announce abruptly as
Bettina continues to make baby noises. "While I'm gone, do you
think that you could manage to speak to the customers using ADULT
WORDS?"
"Sure, boss, anything to make you happy," Bettina replies in
a Mickey mouse voice.
I groan and walk out the door. As I round the corner of the
building, a red van pulls into the last available spot in the
parking lot. A man in his middle thirties wearing khaki pants
and a white polo shirt gets out and walks toward the restaurant
across the street. Quickly, I copy down the license plate number
and rush back into the store.
"What's wrong?" asks Bettina as she sees me grab the phone.
"An accident, a fire, what?"
"There's going to be plenty of smoke alright when Mr. Khaki
Pants discovers that his van has been towed." Frantically, I
thumb through the pages in the phone book looking for the local
towing service's number. "I'm getting tired of people abusing
our parking lot," I announce to everyone within hearing range.
"The sign clearly says, "For Bookstore Customers Only. "These
leeches are going to start towing the line." I laugh. "Get it?
Towing the line!" Half of the people in the store leave while I
turn to dial the number.
"Tom's Towing Service. How can I help you?"
"There's a red van in my parking lot that I'd like you to
remove as quickly as possible. It's parked right in front of the
building under the "We Tow" sign." I read the license plate
number to him.
"I'll be there in ten minutes," Tom replies and hangs up
the phone.
"Yes," I say and clap my hands. "Perhaps this day won't be
a total bomb after all." As I station myself in front of the
window, the phone rings.
"Get that, will you Bettina. I don't want to miss the start
of the show." Bettina who had been peering over my shoulder
reluctantly leaves to answer the phone.
"If only the man had asked permission, he might have
prevented this. Or at least offered me cash . . . "

Reserved for Bribes

On a busy weekend folks will do anything to park in our lot.
They'll come in and buy a 25-cent postcard to become an instant
"bookstore customer." I even get bribed. I had a couple who was
getting married at a chapel down the street. The guests had used
all the parking spaces at the church and they begged me to allow
them to park at our store long enough to exchange vows.
"I'll pay you five dollars if you let me park for half an
hour," the desperate groom offered.
The honorable thing to do was refuse the money and allow the
couple to park in our lot. I made him sweat . . .
"Well, we're kind of busy tonight and your occupancy could
cost us a 35-cent newspaper sale."
"Look. We're really desperate. It's pouring rain and my
fiancee's got her wedding dress on," the man pleaded on bended
knees.
Being the decent person that I am, I relented. "You look
like a nice couple so I'll tell you what I'm going to do. I'm
going to let you park here for free provided that you and all
your guests buy a book after the ceremony."
It gives me a warm feeling inside when I help my fellow
human beings.

Bettina hangs up the phone and returns to the window just as
the van is being hooked up to the tow truck. She taps me on the
shoulder
"Hey, Caroline."
"Not now, Bettina. I'm busy." I wipe the window with my
apron to get a clearer view.
Bettina taps me on the shoulder again. "It's about that
phone call. Our new district manager is coming today and I think
that you should know . . ."
"I KNOW that the district manager is coming," I interrupt.
"Why do you think I'm towing this van? I want to show him that
I'm on top of things." I smile to myself as Tom starts the tow
truck and prepares to exit the parking lot.
"The district manager is going to be so proud of me," I say
hugging Bettina. "Finally, something went right today." I notice
that Bettina looks a little disturbed.
"What's wrong?" I ask putting an arm around her shoulder.
"Oh, I know. You feel left out. Don't worry. I'll put in a good
word for you with the district manager."
"It's not that," Bettina assures me. "It's about that phone
call earlier."
"I interrupted you and I apologize for being rude. Go
ahead and finish what you were telling me. You have my full
attention."
"You won't get upset, will you?" Bettina asks uneasily.
"Me? Upset? That word is not in my vocabulary," I say
confidently.
"Ok," Bettina replies taking a deep breath. "That call was
from Sarah at the downtown store. The new district manager was
just there and she wanted to describe him to us so that we'd be
on the lookout."
"Go ahead," I prompt as Bettina hesitates.
"She said that he was a good-looking man in his middle
thirties. He's wearing a white polo shirt and khaki pants and
he'll be driving a red mini-van and . . . hey? Where are you
going?"
"WAIT! COME BACKKKKKKKKKKK!!!!" I yell to the driver of the
tow truck as I chase down the street after him.