There he stood, looking like a ’50s rock-n-roll wanna-be, in the eye of the storm. John had high hair. Only it wasn’t all gooped up like a greaser. All of 21 years old, I’d guess, he also sported sideburns, blue eyes and baby-soft skin.
Playing rock ‘n’ roll music is a picnic compared with what young John is in the midst of these days. He’s a manager at a Target store. And yes, ’tis the season for cranky kids and crabby customer complaints.
Who knows how long John had been on duty the night I visited the store. I was there to return a malfunctioning humidifier and to request a receipt for a bunch of purchases I had made on a previous visit. I don’t know what happened to the original receipt. The cashier didn’t give it to me, or I lost it. Those are pretty much the possibilities.
A cheerful middle-aged woman helped me with the humidifier return. “The reset light keeps coming on,” I explained to her, knowing by her smile that a refund wasn’t going to be a problem. “Even when there’s water in the tank, the dumb light keeps burning, and there’s no moisture being released.” I forget the clerk’s name at the customer-service station. But she was friendly. Her tone, however, seemed to alter slightly when I requested the copy of the receipt. “Oh,” she said as I explained by plight. “I have the credit card I used,” I said, “and I can even tell you approximately what time it was when I was here that day.”
“That’s good,” she said, pursing her lips, “the manager’s going to want to know that.” She pointed out John, who had his hands full dealing with an unhappy customer. The man, in his 40s, was restrained but persistent. Without the female clerk even telling John that I wanted to see him about the receipt, he excused himself from the upset customer just long enough to glance over at me. “Sir, I’ll be with you in just a second.”
John walked off in an attempt to turn Mr. Unhappy into Senor Smile. It didn’t work. I didn’t eavesdrop on the conversation, but it ended with Mr. Unhappy requesting John’s name and title, as well as the name of John’s supervisor. John complied quickly, courteously and completely. “This poor guy,” I thought to myself. “How does he do this – all day long during the holidays? His composure is incredible. He must have ice water running in his veins.”
I told John my situation. He wrote down the information and went into the office, returning a few minutes later. “Do you remember which register you were at?” he asked. I had it narrowed down. “It was either No. 12 or No. 14. And I was here at approximately 2:30 Sunday afternoon.” John nodded, “OK, good, that will narrow it down. I’m sorry but I’ll have to go back and run that. I’m sorry it’s taking so much time.”
I assured John that I wasn’t in a hurry, that I appreciated his help, and that I understood procedures needed to be followed. While John was back in the office, I stood in front of the store. I saw heaping carts, haggard faces and harried demeanors. It wasn’t complete chaos, being 8 o’clock on a weeknight. But still, it was two weeks before Dec. 25, and the Christmas crush was on. You could feel it in the air.
Unless you were in John’s presence. Then all you could do was admire his boyish good looks and respect his dedication to superior customer service. “OK,” said John upon his return, a computer printout in hand. “So here are the purchases you made on Sunday.” He went over the receipt in detail.
Here’s your card number. Here’s our store number. Here’s the total. Here’s each item. Here’s where you checked out. John made sure I understood that this piece of paper could not be used to return any of the items for a refund.
“That’s OK,” I said, “I just need documentation for tax purposes.”
John was business-like without being boring; cordial in a very low-key manner. And it’s a good thing, because I could tell mine was not the last figurative fire he was going to put out that night. “John, when you get a minute,” the girl at register no. 8 yelled over, “I need a void.”
John turned back to me. “OK, so are well set then?”
“Yes, John, thanks for your time. And you know,” I extended my hand,” God bless you for what you do.”
“Thanks,” he said, acknowledging my gratitude and allowing a trace of a smile to grace his face.