Restraining Order

She was studying at her desk when a movement outside the window caught her eye. She looked up to see a blue Kia parking at the end of the driveway.

Her blood went cold, and her heart clenched - the fight-or-flight reaction. It happened every time he showed up in her life.

She hadn't felt it that first Sunday, when he introduced himself, all smiles and charm. But  an hour later, she had had her first sense of it when he had barged into a conversation she was having with her best friends, as if he were already part of the group and there was something between him and her.

There was was nothing between him and her - nothing except aggressive pursuit on his side, and fear and fleeing on her side. He used to text her constantly, and call her at odd hours, even though she told him not to. She put an end to that by blocking his number. Then he would text and call her friends, asking them to deliver messages to her, until they learned to block his number too.

He friended her on Facebook, and then filled her feed with bogus declarations of gratitude for their real-life friendship, compliments about her looks, and suggestive come-ons. She ended up unfriending him, blocking him, and reporting him to Facebook. She went through her feed and deleted everything he had ever written. Some of her friends also unfriended him and blocked him, but not all of them - so he could still keep tabs on her by stalking those unblocked friends.

Somehow he found out her class schedule, and he would wait for her outside the classroom. If she came out surrounded by a group of friends, which she did increasingly often, as physical protection, he would somehow force his way into the circle, try to hook his arm in hers or wrap his arm around her, and steer her out of the circle. More than once, her friends had to trip him or almost wrestle with him to break his hold - and he still tagged along.

If she studied late, and went to the parking garage after dark, he would be standing next to her car, waiting for her. He would engage her in conversation, and wouldn't stop until she said, "Um, I have to go ...", got in the car, and drove away. Sometimes he managed to maneuver in front of the driver's door, so she couldn't unlock or open it. Whenever that happened, she would walk over to the passenger door, get in that way, and crawl across the console. It was awkward and embarrassing, but he didn't seem to notice - or care. But she would shake all the way home, her eyes scanning the rear-view mirror.

When she and her friends went to the gym, he would be over on the weight machines, flexing and eyeing her.

She told her professors about him, and she reported him to campus security, but he hadn't done anything illegal (yet), so they couldn't do anything. Basically, they told her "You're a big girl; you deal with it."

She hadn't really wanted to go to the school's fall social, but her friends had talked her into it, and there was a good local band playing, so she had given in. The entire floor of the sports arena had been turned into an old-fashioned harvest festival, with bobbing for apples, fresh hot donuts and cider, pumpkin carving contests, everything but Halloween costumes. The Halloween party would be in another three weeks, but she wasn't planning on going.

She parked her car and walked in. As she entered the gym, her friend Liz caught her and gave her the customary I'm-glad-you're-here squeal and hug. But they hadn't gotten past the folded-up bleachers when she got a text from Alli: "Carl spotted you. RUN!!!" Her blood froze, her heart clenched, and her face twisted into a mask of fear.

Liz asked, "What's wrong?" She turned and showed Liz the text. Liz pushed her towards the door, and said in that faux-calm voice that some people are gifted with: "Go. I'll stop him." She didn't move. Liz turned towards the gym and saw him, running through the crowd, about halfway across the arena floor. "Go! Now! Here he comes!"

Instantly, the adrenaline hit, and she flew out the door and sprinted to her car. She got in, locked the door, started the car and put it in Reverse. Before she could start moving, there was a rattling of her door handle and then fists pounding on her window, and a man's voice shouting "Stop! I need to talk to you!"

Without looking at him, she shook her head vehemently and stomped on the gas, kicking up dirt and grass as the car jumped backwards. As she shifted to Drive, she was secretly hoping that he would jump in the way, to try to stop her in one direction or the other, so she could run over him. But he didn't. She did see him running after her, yelling something she couldn't hear.

She was aware that her purse was still wrapped around her, and that her seat belt was still undone, but she was too busy concentrating on getting away, and trying to see the dark roads through her freely flowing tears. She thought someone was following her, but if they were, they stopped about eight miles from home, so she wrote it off as paranoia.

She called her favorite uncle to ask for his advice. He lived 2100 miles away, but sometimes when she talked to him, it was like he was right next door. And she felt more comfortable talking to him about some things than even her parents.

After she hung up, she still couldn't sleep. So she stayed up all night, drinking hot chocolate and watching chick flicks. Her body finally gave out at 5 in the morning.

After three hours of sleep, she took her uncle's advice and called the police department. After they explained her options to her, she showered, dressed, and drove to the main office. A desk officer, a cross between a kindly grandmother and Gal Gadot's Wonder Woman, sat with her and helped her fill out the paperwork for a restraining order. Then they went next door to the judge's office, where the judge approved it.

She drove home, feeling relieved, like she finally had some control over her life again. But there was one little problem, a problem which sat like a persistent remnant of an ice cube, in her heart. Her address was on the restraining order. So if he hadn't already figured out where she lived, he knew now.

So when his car appeared in her cul-de-sac three days later, all of that fear came rushing back. At first, she thought, Why did I even bother getting that restraining order? Then, just as her uncle had told her, she started getting mad. How dare he run my life like this? Who does he think he is, making me run away like a scared bunny all the time? Is he too dense to take no for an answer? I guess it's time for me to enforce my own restraining order.

When she had gotten home from the police department, she had done like Kevin in Home Alone, and inventoried her house for anything that would work as a weapon. In her dad's workshop in the garage, she had found a couple of sledgehammers. She had swung them around, and decided that she could handle the one with the long yellow handle and the 8-pound head. She had also found a Boy Scout machete. Did the Boy Scouts really have machetes? Her dad said that he had gotten it when he was a kid, and yes, it had been in the Scout catalog for several years.

Her uncle had suggested that she figure out some offensive and defensive moves with the hammer, and so she had snuck down to the basement and gotten sweaty swinging it around and trying stuff on her dad's punching bag.

Her silly uncle called it "Hammer Fu". That made her smile.

When the doorbell started ringing, she jumped up out of her chair and ran downstairs, managing to hide herself from view. She heard him rattle the doorknob and then start knocking loudly on the door. Just before she stepped into the garage, she heard him yell "Katrina! Come on out, we need to talk!" For a moment, she felt a shiver of fear, but then anger pushed the fear aside.

She had had enough. 

In the garage, she dialed 911, gave her name and address, and said in one of those frighteningly calm voices, "There's a man outside my house, trying to get in. He's not my boyfriend, he's a stalker. I have a restraining order. I'm afraid he's going to hurt me. Please send help." Then, without disconnecting the call, she stuffed the phone in her bra so that the microphone was free. She grabbed the machete off the workbench and stuck it in her waistband along her spine, then picked up the sledgehammer and stepped out the door on the side of the house.

She was pissed.

Holding the hammer in both hands like she intended to use it, she marched around the side of the house and along the far side of the driveway, eyes focused on the Kia, but very aware of Carl's location. He was still pounding on the door, yelling "Katrina! Katrina! Come on, you owe this to me!"

I don't owe you anything.

She wasn't hiding from him, but he was so focused on the door that he didn't know she was outside until he heard the sound of breaking glass. He spun around to see her winding up for a second blow on his windshield. He ran towards the car, yelling, "Katrina! Stop it!" as the hammer came down.

He was too late to stop the third blow. The head of the hammer cracked the unbreakable plastic headlight cover on the right side into three pieces, and then without stopping, shattered the xenon bulbs of his right headlight assembly. He grabbed her right arm and yelled "Stop it!"

That's assault, right there.

She said exactly what her uncle had told her to say. She had been practicing it for two days. "Ow! Let go of me! You're hurting me!"

As she said it, she spun to the right, backswinging the hammer, and struck him full-force on the wrist. The hammerhead compressed his blood vessels, his tendons, and most importantly, the nerves in his carpal tunnel, causing his hand to go numb and breaking his grip instantly. It was his turn to say "Ow!"

Now they were facing each other. In  less time than it takes to describe it, she shifted her grip so that she was holding the hammer vertical, with the head down, both hands together near the butt of the handle, and she drove it straight down, into his instep, focused on literally driving his foot into the pavement.

Hammer Fu.

She didn't think she broke any bones, but she definitely damaged soft tissue, and the foot was instantly too painful to use. He hopped on one foot, and reached out to grab her arms to steady himself. She instantly shifted her grip on the hammer, holding it horizontally and backwards. The head was in her right hand, behind her hip. Her left hand held the handle, with the butt pointed at his stomach. She stepped forward, driving the handle deep into his solar plexus.

Sometimes the best defense is a good offense.

He fell against the car, grunting and moaning inarticulately. She used that time to walk around him towards the other headlight. As she wound up to hit it, she remembered her uncle's advice and yelled, "You're not supposed to be here!" WHAM! "You're violating a restraining order! You attacked me!" POW! After two hits, the headlight was gone, and the underlying metal was mangled.

Leaning on the hood, he maneuvered around the front of the car towards her. She moved to the back of the car. She felt a twinge of guilt, looking at the taillight LEDs, but then the anger shoved the guilt aside. As the taillight assembly disintegrated under the hammer's blow, she yelled, "Get in your car and get out of here!"

He held onto the driver's door handle, balancing on one foot, still gasping for breath, but otherwise not moving. What was he waiting for? Was he trying to think of what to say next? Or his next move?

Keep moving, girl.

"Now, asshole!" The hammerhead went into the driver's side door, inches from his kneecap. Then she threw the sledgehammer aside, reached behind her, and pulled out the machete. "If you don't leave, your tires get it next."

Asshole.

Nobody had ever heard Katrina say a word like "asshole" before. She was so clean and pure, "stupid" was probably the fiercest word anybody had ever heard her say. It startled her as much as it startled him - but it had the desired effect. He pulled open the door and dived in, started the car and put it in Reverse. For just an instant, time stopped.

Gee, this feels familiar. Except last time, that was me and this was him.

She pounded loudly on his window with the machete's handle  -  just for fun. Without looking at her, he twisted the steering wheel and stomped on the gas, the tires squealing and laying twin black stripes on the pavement as the car spun around. But she didn't run after him as he shifted into Drive and raced out of the cul-de-sac and down the street. Instead, she stood and watched as a police car, lights flashing, cut in front of him, just a block away.

She heard a voice from her bra saying "Hello? Hello? Ma'am? Are you okay?" Breathing heavily, she reached in, pulled out her phone, and put it to her ear. "Yes, I'm okay now."

That's how I enforce a restraining order.

Yet another warning to women: Stop arguing!

Ladies! Haven't we talked about this already? Apparently it hasn't sunk in yet, because you're still being assholes to your men.

(And guys, this is for you too, since way too many of you are still being assholes to your women.)

Why are you still arguing with the person you're supposed to love the most in your life? Why are you correcting them, arguing them, even interrupting them to do so? Why do you do it every time they open their mouths to speak?

Let me illustrate with a couple of episodes. These are real. Only the names have been changed.

---

EPISODE 1: The Texting Conversation

Your spouse or significant other just had an exciting text conversation with somebody, and they're dying to tell you about it. So they say "I just swapped a bunch of texts with Amanda Martinez," and they start telling you about it.

After a couple of sentences, you interrupt them: "Martinez ...?"

They answer, "Yeah ..."

This is when you correct them with your superior knowledge. "I don't think her name is Martinez."

---

EPISODE 2: The iTunes Playlist

You have some friends over for a party. There's good music playing. Your friends say, "This is a cool music." Your spouse or significant other says, "Yeah! It's a playlist of Phil Collins' greatest hits that I made yesterday."

This is when you correct them with your superior knowledge. "That's not Phil Collins!"

---

WHAT DO DO ABOUT IT:

Before you open your mouth to argue with your loved one, STOP. Ask yourself these three questions.

1. Are you sure they're wrong?
   
   You could both be right, you know. Maybe Amanda recently got married. One of you is thinking of her maiden name and one of you is thinking of her married name. Both names are right.
   
2. Does it matter?
   
   If your spouse is telling a story from their college days, it doesn't really matter if the trip was 30 miles or 50 miles. You may think it matters, but IT REALLY DOESN'T. Just shut the fuck up and let the moment pass. Likewise, it really doesn't matter if they refer to Amanda by her maiden name or her married name. You both know who she is.
   
3. Will speaking up about it strengthen your relationship? Or, looking at it from the other direction, will being silent about it damage your relationship?

If you can answer an honest and enthusiastic "yes" to all three of those questions, then by all means, speak up! But if you can't, then SHUT THE FUCK UP!

What's your real motivation in arguing with them?

Do they really benefit from your constant corrections? Is it making them a better person?

Does proving they're wrong, over and over again, give you more power - more control in the relationship?

Do you feel a need to keep them in their place?

Do you think they really enjoy your constant picking at them? Have they ever thanked you for it? I can tell you straight up, that they usually walk away thinking, "... What an asshole." Is that really what you want them to think?

Are you just trying to shut them up?

If one of these is your reason for arguing with them, then SHUT THE FUCK UP.

WHAT TO DO ABOUT IT:

Were they always wrong like this when you first fell in love with them? And you fell in love with them anyway? Then your own judgment is terribly flawed. You made a terrible mistake. If your judgment was so bad back then, then what on earth makes you feel qualified to point out their flaws now? You're nothing but a goddamned, fucking idiot.

Are they really so terrible - such awful specimens of humanity - that you feel the need to constantly point out their flaws and their mistakes to them? If so, why did you bother to get married (or whatever)? Why don't you just get up your courage to end the relationship and walk away? If they're so flawed, I'm sure you can find somebody better.

Because if you don't, someday they will.

POSTSCRIPTS

p.s. I'm pretty sure that when their phone displays "Amber Martinez texted you," it really means Martinez.
p. p.s. I'm also pretty sure that when they searched for "Phil Collins" on iTunes in order to build their playlist, they meant Phil Collins, and they only downloaded Phil Collins tunes.
p.p.p.s.  By the way, if you're guilty of doing this, then you are a pompous, self-important, stuck-up, asshole. Just thought you should know.
p.p.p.p.s. You're saying, "It's not constantly". Oh, trust me, it's constantly. You just don't realize it. Look up "fundamental attribution error" on Google, cuz you're doing it.

Another warning to women: One word is all it takes

Most women have no idea of the power of their words. They do not understand how, with one single simple word, or even just the inflection of their voice, they can turn a good day bad, or a bad day worse.

Or just the opposite: they can salvage a bad day and turn it good, or take a good day and make it spectacular. Just one single word.

There's a Biblical verse that says, "Out of the same mouth proceedeth blessing and cursing? My brethren, this ought not so to be." If you had to choose between saying something to make someone feel better and saying something to make someone feel worse, which one would you choose? Why would anyone ever choose to make someone feel worse? That is, without a doubt, one of the dumbest choices you could ever make.

A case in point: A husband and wife are getting ready for work. They're both running late, but it's garbage day, so the husband is scurrying around, emptying wastebaskets. He's not upset about it; it's just something that needs to be done, as normal as brushing teeth or grabbing a coat.

But taking out the garbage was also on the wife's list, and so she says to him, "I'll take care of that."

His reply, "No, don't worry, there's only one can left."

She could smile and say, "Thank you." She should smile and say, "Thank you." Instead, she snarls "All right ...." and they don't have time for any more interaction. She's busy with her hair and makeup, and he's already late, so he takes the trash out to the trash cans, puts them on the curb, and leaves for work.

He just gave her a gift of 10 to 15 extra minutes that morning - time that he really couldn't spare himself. It was a gift from the heart. But she didn't see it that way. For her, it was a disruption to her day's plans, and a loss of control.

And for the husband, although he couldn't put it in these words, he was hurt because his wife had rejected his gift. And the last thing he heard from her, as he went out the door, was not an expression of love, but a snarl.

Ladies!
1. Why would he want to go home to that? Who wants to go home to someone who feeds them vinegar instead of honey and wine?
2. How many more times will she reject these little gifts of love before he finally gives up and stops offering them?

A Warning to All Women: Don't Stifle Your Man

I could write multiple posts about this, but let's start with this one.

Ladies! Has the man in your life ever wanted to do something by himself, like go skiing at Jackson Hole for the day, or backpacking for a week in the Tetons, and you shut him down? Then you are a goddamed, fucking, world-class, idiot.

Let me explain why.

The usual response of a woman, when a man says he wants to do something adventurous like that, is either (a) NOT to let him do it, or (b) to insist that he take you with him. Both of those are the wrong thing to do.

You see, a marriage (or a relationship) is supposed to be a partnership - usually a partnership of equals. And while you are now partners, you are also individuals. You don't surrender your individuality when you enter into this partnership. If you do, you surrender the very things that attracted the other person to you in the first place.

Not only that, but you don't surrender your freedom. A marriage or a relationship should give you a chance to grow and develop, not stifle you.

A man can't live his whole life stuck in a box. He needs to be able to stand up, stretch out, and run, screaming with wild abandon, through the open spaces of the world. If he can't do that, he becomes one of Thoreau's "mass of men, lead[ing] lives of quiet desperation."

And if you're the person who made him that way, then you might as well cut off his balls and put him on a leash. That's what you did to your dog. But you didn't join with this man because you wanted him for a pet. Did you? (If you did, then Woman, you deserve to die alone and lonely, in a dark, unheated apartment. Now.)

No, you got him because you loved the way that he was so manly, and did man things ambitious and adventurous. Why do you now want to stifle that? What gives you the authority to stifle it? You also got him because he treated you well, and did stuff for you, and encouraged you, and helped you to grow and blossom. IF YOU STOP HIM FROM DOING ALL THAT MANLY SHIT, HE WILL STOP DOING ALL THE OTHER SHIT AS WELL.

If you let your man go run that marathon, but you make sure he feels good and guilty about it, he will feel guilty on the way there, and he will start the marathon with an unnecessary load of stress. He will carry that guilt the whole time he's running. It will physically weigh him down, and he will not be at the top of his game. The distraction of the guilt may also impair his judgment, causing him to make some wrong (and possibly dangerous) decisions. And he will feel guilty all the way home. He will not look forward to seeing you, and in fact, he will fantasize about all the things he could do instead of going home to you.

If, worse, you don't let him go, if you make him stay home, he will brood about it - not just for the day or the week, but for a long, LONG time afterward. He may not show it, but it's there. This one disappointment and frustration will permanently change him, subtly altering his thought patterns and his behavior - and his feelings towards you. Is that what you wanted? Because that's what you got.

And what the hell? He indulges you, all the time. More than that, he encourages you. He never holds you back - and sometimes he even pushes you, in your timid moments. He only wants to see you happy, successful, and satisified. Why can't you do the same for him? In stifling him, you have revealed yourself as a selfish, hypocritical Queen Bitch.

Let me tell you what will happen, if you keep doing this to him. If you keep stifling him, burdening him, emasculating him, he will begin to resent you. One day you will wake up and wonder what happened to the man who used to worship the ground you walked on. Because by then, his resentment will have grown and grown, and it will have morphed into hatred - hatred that dwarfs the contempt that you have felt for him for so long. AND YOU DESERVE IT.

On the other hand, if you willingly and enthusiastically let your man stretch out once in a while, to do some man stuff by himself or with his manly buddies, he will come running back to you, with increased respect and gratitude for your support and encouragement, and more devoted to you than before.

It's your choice. And it's a pretty obvious choice. Don't be an idiot.

Dealing with the Customer From Hell: the DMV, part 2

Just before lunchtime, the two police officers who had responded to the morning's incident came in and asked to speak to the clerk who had fired the gun.

"How is he?" she asked, as she handed over the chrome-plated revolver.

"The chief? He says he never had so much fun in his life," said one of them, in a low voice. "The squibs we got from the community theatre worked perfectly. When we were wheeling him out, he was having trouble keeping his eyes closed and not laughing."

"We should do this every week," said the other cop. Looking at the crowd waiting meekly in the waiting room, he observed, "It looks like it worked really well."

"Yeah," said the clerk, "But if you do it too often, they get used to it."

"Soooo," said the first one, "Lunch? The chief's buying."

"Deal," said the clerk. She grabbed her purse, gave the other clerks the high sign, and left with the two officers.

Dealing with the Customer From Hell: the DMV

It was a busy day at the Motor Vehicle Registration department. The waiting room was full of people cluttching their numbers and scanning the "NOW BEING SERVED" display above the door, waiting impatiently for their number to come up. Most of them weren't happy to be there, having put off this errand for as long as they could. The mood in the room was ugly. Most of them customers took the chance to take out their bad feelings on the clerks behind the counters in the next room.

At one point, a guy with an old corduroy jacket and a plaid flannel shirt stood up, muttered "finally!" and stomped into the next room. He sat at a desk opposite a slightly overweight woman in her 30s. She had short, dark hair and an expression that pleaded with him not to be the next person who dumped on her.

Too bad. What should have been a simple renewal of a truck license escalated quickly into a shouting match, simply because the guy refused to do what everybody else before him had to do, in order to renew the license. Sure, it was bureaucratic and onerous, but it wasn't the clerk's fault. In only a couple of minutes, he was standing, waving his fists in the air, and condemning the clerk and the entire DMV to hell. He was in the middle of questioning her education and her parents' intelligence when everything changed at once.

The clerk stood up, pulled open a desk drawer, pulled out an old-West-style revolver, and shot the man - twice, right in the chest. He didn't even have time to react. One moment he was yelling, and the next moment he crumpled to the ground and lay there, like a 230-pound rag doll.

The waiting customers screamed. A few of them ran out the front door and didn't return. Those who remained whispered among themselves in fear. The other clerks, startled by the noise, looked up and saw what had happened, then chose to just sit there and watch the aftermath. The customers they were serving looked from their clerks, to the clerk with the gun, to the body on the floor, and then back to their clerks.

In less than a minute, two police officers and two paramedics ran through the front door, pushing a gurney. By this time, the clerk had put her gun away and closed the drawer. Still standing, she watched as the four men muscled the guy onto the gurney and rushed him out the door.

The clerk sat down, straightened the papers on her desk, and muttered, "Asshole." Then she barked "NEXT!" and pressed the button to advance the "NOW BEING SERVED" number on the display.

The customers who remained were quiet and polite, conducting their business and leaving as quickly as possible. Word of the incident passed in whispers to the new customers who came in, and the rest of the morning was busy, but peaceful.

Dealing with the Customer From Hell

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."