I work at Old Navy, a fashion-casual clothing store that caters to younger consumers. One of my co-workers was a skinny 19-year-old girl with long, dark hair. Her name was Tiffany. She looked kind of frail and we always watched out for her.
One very busy Saturday, she was checking people out, when this guy plopped down about $400 worth of denim goods on the counter. As she rang them up, he stopped her and complained about Each. And. Every. Item.
One was defective. Another was mislabeled. Another was from the clearance rack and yet she'd rung it up at full price. None of this was true, mind you. He was just playing with her head, trying to get a freebie — or at least a discount.
He was the Customer From Hell.
Whenever we get a customer like this, a secret, telepathic signal gets sent through the store. All of the sales associates gravitate to its source, which in this case was Tiffany. We all found places to quietly observe what was going on. We liked to fool ourselves into thinking that we would rush to her aid if she got into real trouble, but most of us just wanted to watch the train wreck.
Tiffany was getting rattled. Her face was whiter than usual, and beads of sweat were forming on her forehead. Her fingers were actually trembling as she removed the anti-theft tags and rang up the items.
The customer was getting louder and more belligerent. About halfway through the pile, he started yelling at her as she rang things up: "Good grief! This store is nothing but a major rip-off operation! All of your merchandise is shitty and overpriced! Your ads are deceptive! You're doing your best to rip off your customers!"
She was doing a damned good job of trying to appease the guy, but anybody could tell that she was on the verge of tears.
Then he started to insult her personally. "Goddammit, are you really this incompetent? Or are you just trying to rip me off? This was supposed to be on 30 percent discount, and you only rang it up for 20 percent! Damn, you're slow!" I really, truly, honestly saw her lower lip start to tremble.
And that's when this middle-aged man walked up to the Customer From Hell. It's as if he had also gotten the telepathic signal. This new actor looked like he was in his 50s. He still had a lot of hair, and it was mostly brown. It had some graying highlights along the temples, but that was about it. He was dressed casually, but not like a slob. His demeanor was that of a senior citizen who had wandered into the wrong store looking for gifts for his grandkids.
He tapped the Customer From Hell on the elbow and asked, "'Scuse me, sir, is there something wrong?"
The response: "Damn right there is! This store is overcharging me for shitty goods! And this worthless piece-of-shit chick is trying to rip me off!!"
Grandpa asked, "Well, maybe I can help." He turned to one of my co-workers who happened to be standing nearby, attracted to the smell of blood. "Where's your manager?"
The co-worker, suddenly fearful for his life said, "I'll go get him." And he ran off to the back of the store. Sometimes managers pick up the telepathic signal, but often they don't. Our manager was having an oblivious day.
So Grandpa, the Customer From Hell and the skinny girl all stood there, as if frozen in a tableau, waiting for the other kid to come back with the manager. The Customer rocked back and forth on his pompous, overbearing toes and heels. Tiffany was trying her hardest not to cry, but I couldn't tell if she would last. Maybe she would just pass out. And the old guy had a look of intense concentration on his face, as he carefully examined every detail on a poster on the wall, twenty feet away.
Finally, the manager came running up with the kid. He apologized for the delay. Apparently the kid had taken some extra time to explain the whole situation to him. The manager looked like a slightly paunchy Old Navy model: he was wearing a pair of Urban Pipeline jeans, and one of the top-of-the-line polo shirts that usually hangs on the back wall of the men's section. Grandpa read the manager's name off of his name tag and said, "Ah. Grant. I'm glad you're here. This gentleman seems to be having some trouble with his purchases, and I thought that maybe I could help."
The manager, with squinting eyes and furrowed brow, looked at the old man and asked, "And who are you, sir?"
The Customer From Hell echoed, "Yeah, who the hell are you?"
The old gentleman smiled benignly and said, "I'm glad you both asked. You see, my name is Art Peck. I'm the CEO of The Gap, Inc." (Yes, he said "Inc." Pronounced it like "ink.") "Old Navy is actually owned by The Gap."
Grant, the manager, went as white as the skinny little cashier. The Customer snorted. "Good. Now maybe I'll get some satisfaction around here."
Art Peck asked the Customer, "And what's your name?"
He told him his name. Then Peck asked him, "So that we may handle your complaint properly, may I please see your driver's license?"
The customer smirked, pulled out his wallet, removed his license and handed it over to Peck. "Now we're getting somewhere," he sneered.
Peck pulled out his smartphone and took a picture of the driver's license, then gave it back to the guy. With a smile, he said, "I was here the day Tiffany was hired. She has always been a model employee. I can personally vouch for her integrity."
Tiffany, the skinny girl, stared at him with her mouth slightly open. Her watery eyes were now wide open and focused tightly on Peck.
Peck continued, "While it is true that we buy most of our clothing from Asian manufacturers, it is of the highest quality. It must meet MY standards before we're allowed to sell it. And our returns policy is one of the fairest you will find."
The Customer From Hell started shifting from one foot to the other. He was getting impatient. "So, how are you going to make things right by me?"
Peck's smile faded a bit. His eyes became slightly less friendly. He looked like a bird of prey surveying its next meal.
He said, "We keep our checkstands under constant video surveillance. This is to protect you, the customer ..." and the Customer smirked yet again.
"... but it is also to protect our employees. I have this entire transaction on video, and I will be using it in a training video for our new hires. Now," and he called the customer by name, as his smile turned to a ferocious glare, "I will send a copy of the video, AND your driver's license, to every one of our one-thousand-plus stores in the United States. I will see to it that you never shop in an Old Navy store again. Now," and his voice turned to cold steel, "get out of my store."
The Customer From Hell froze. This wasn't what he had expected, and he didn't know how to react. The skinny cashier froze. This was the last thing in the world she was expecting, too. Actually, all of us froze in total disbelief. The only person who moved was Mr. Peck.
He stepped directly in front of the Customer From Hell, their noses almost touching. With a voice like a Marine drill sergeant, he barked, "I said, get the hell out of my store!"
The Customer From Hell took a small step backward, and stammered, "You — you can't —"
Peck got into his face again and yelled, "NOW, ASSHOLE! NOW-NOW-NOW!" And he actually stomped his foot for emphasis on that last "now". I didn't think people really did that.
The next thing that happened, well, it was so fast, it takes longer to tell than it did to happen. The Customer From Hell turned even whiter than Grant had. Then he turned as purple as a beet. Mr. Peck clenched his fists at his sides and leaned forwards onto the tips of his toes. I kid you not, they almost touched noses. The Customer looked like he was going to shit his pants. Then he just turned and ran out of the store.
You know how, in the old Road Runner cartoons, the coyote runs away so fast that he vanishes with a zip, leaving a coyote-shaped cloud of dust where he was standing? Yeah. Well, it seemed like the Customer From Hell disappeared that fast. I'm surprised he didn't leave a customer-shaped hole in the glass door on his way out.
Then Tiffany did start crying. But she quickly composed herself, grabbed a couple of Kleenex, and set about drying her eyes and her nose. The rest of us exhaled, probably for the first time in five minutes. The manager walked up to Peck, grabbed his hand and started shaking it vigorously. "Mr. Peck, thank you for intervening. I had NO IDEA you would be here today. I would have cleaned the place up if I'd known you were coming."
He started to make more excuses, but Peck cut him off with a wave of his free hand and said, "There's no need, Grant, I've been checking this place out for the last half hour and it looks just fine. You can go back to your office. I'd like to have a little talk with Tiffany here." Peck watched as Grant walked back into his office at the back of the store. Then he went to the counter, dramatically pushed the $400 worth of denim out of the way, and laid down an assortment of toddler's and little kids' gear.
"These are for the grandkids," he explained. Hey! He really was a grandpa!
With several curious glances at him, the cashier rang up his purchases. He swiped his credit card and signed on the touch-sensitive screen. The cashier read the name on her display and said, "Wait a minute, you're not Art Peck!"
He winked at her. "Never met him in my life. But I did see his name in the Wall Street Journal this morning."
