“Well, since I’ve been so … inconvenienced … I think I should be entitled to a little … compensation.”
The customer’s oily smirk made Jessia want to heave.
She gave him her most patently fake, pinch-lipped smile. “Certainly, sir, would you prefer a sample pack of our top-selling perfume, or a five-dollar gift certificate?”
He shook his head and stepped closer. His hair was oily too. “Oh no, lovely, my time is worth far more than that. You’ll have to do better.”
Jessica heaved a theatrical sigh and opened the top counter drawer. “Fine, here, have both. And a tester spray of our newest men’s fragrance.”
She handed him a tiny vial of the sickly-sweet perfume people always bought for their grandmothers (and their grandmothers returned the following week to get something a little more ‘their style’), and a tacky, gold-printed gift card, then hit him with a hefty dose of the newest male fragrance in her counter brand’s range. She was pretty sure hikers used it to knock out charging moose in the Swedish forests. Sadly it seemed her oil-slick of a customer was a little more robust.
He choked on the cloud and waved his hand in front of his face. “What was that for? I should have you charged for assault.”
Screw it, she didn’t need this job that badly. “No, sir, assault is when I hit you over the head with this bottle, which is what I’m going to do if you don’t back off, right now.”
She’d raised her voice, attracting the attention of several nearby shoppers, including an older woman, who rolled her eyes and stomped over, followed by a worried-looking supervisor. “Bertie, are you harassing this poor girl?”
Bertie shrank, head down, shoulders in. “Oh, no, mother, I would never…”
Jessica glared at him. “He was making disgusting insinuations, standing far too close, threatening me and trying to get a bottle of this perfume for free.” She waved at the grandma perfume display.
The woman looked outraged. “You were trying to swindle a bottle of that, that, horse piss, out of this poor girl. And what for? My birthday’s next week, surely you wouldn’t be so crass.”
Bertie scuttled off, looking like the cockroach he was. He’d be back, they always were, but someone else could have a go at stomping on him next time.
Jessica handed her name tag to the supervisor. “I quit.” Then turned to the woman. “Thank you for your help.”
With that, she grabbed her bag from under the cash register and walked out.
The DNA of Stories 