We stopped in at a new “boutique” while in downtown Boise recently.
The only employee greeted us wearing a tight, white t-shirt, leather coat and painted-on jeans.
“Welcoooome,” he announced, sporting a pronounced lisp. “Lots of sale items and great things on the rack in the back!!!”
He walked with an exaggerated gait; obviously a very feminine man. He took his place behind the counter and continued his intense texting session.
We took note of the extensive Ed Hardy collection (insert finger into throat) and gave each other a knowing look. Racks of knee-high boots lined with fur, XL sizes that would fit a size 2 young girl, and rhinestone-crusted sunglasses were plentiful. Kris found a great dress, and it was affordable, so I insisted she try it on.
It was a tad too tight in the top, but looked great on her. I told her to wait and I’d try to find a different size.
Each dress had the same vanity tag, yet none listed a size on it. I asked the employee if he could help me.
“Oh gawd,” he sighed, while prancing over to the rack, “Aren’t they in order? I just hired some new people and they are obviously worthless.”
He continued to sigh and throw his hands in the air with each dress that was not labeled properly.
He thrust another dress in my hands and told me to have her try that one on; it “looked” larger.
His foul words about his (either) co-workers or employees left a bad taste in my mouth.
Under no circumstances would I talk down about my staff, even if they had done something wrong.
While Kris tried on the new dress size, I continued to walk through the store incredulous to the $300 denim jeans that took over nearly half of the store.
As we were about to leave, I noticed a sheet of paper set atop a table of $100 T-shirts. I glanced at the writing, and lo-and-behold! It was a cheat-sheet to opening and closing the store.
In huge, bold letters were the words ALARM CODE with a series of numbers. It also listed the PASSWORDS to the computer system.
I smirked at the irony, and walked back to the counter to hand it to Mr. Texter (who was still living up to this name).
“Looks like one of those worthless newbies must have left this out,” I said as I set it on the counter.
He took one look and his eyes became as large as lemons. “Omigod!” he blurt out, “Totally not OK!”
I agree, I thought to myself as we walked out. This place will be out of business before my next trip to Boise. Over-priced clothing sold with venom-laced words. I can’t imagine a regular clientele that would look forward to that.