My job at the garden place is usually nice. I like being outside, even if it is inside under a big roof. Many plants make the air smell good, like fresh earth and flowers. Sometimes I can tell what kind of flower is nearby just by its smell, even from far away. Most days are easy. People come for plants, for dirt, for pots. They are happy to make their homes look green and pretty. I help them find what they need. I point them to the right aisle. It is a good job for someone like me. I like to see things happen, to just go with the flow of the day.
One afternoon, the quiet day changed. A lady walked in. She had a small dog in a fancy bag. It was one of those tiny dogs, with big eyes and a little pink bow on its head. The lady, she had bright blonde hair that looked very stiff, like she had sprayed it a lot. Her clothes were fancy, too. She wore a shiny watch. She walked like she knew where she was going, like she owned the place. She did not smile. The dog made a little yip noise sometimes from inside the bag. I smelled her perfume, very strong, it made my nose tingle a bit, almost covering the plant smells.
I was near the special plants, the big ones that cost more money. We had a new type of fern, very rare, with shiny silver leaves. Only one of these ferns had come in, and a nice lady, Mrs. Jenkins, had paid for it already. She loved ferns. She asked us to hold it for her until her son could pick it up next day, because it was too big for her car. We put a big red tag on it that said, “SOLD – HOLD FOR PICKUP.” It stood out, very clear. Mrs. Jenkins was excited about this fern, she told me all about how she would put it in her sunroom. She was a sweet old lady who always bought little gifts for her grandchildren when she came in.
The blonde lady, she stopped right in front of the silver fern. Her eyes got big. She tapped her long fingernail on the pot. She looked at the red tag, but only for a second. Then she looked at me. I was a few steps away, watering some orchids. Her face was not happy, not sad, just… fixed. Like she wanted something very much. Her dog in the bag made a little whine.
She walked over to me. She said, “I need that fern.” Her voice was not asking, it was telling. I smiled. I tried to be helpful. I said, “Oh, that one is already sold, ma’am. A customer paid for it yesterday. We are holding it for her.” I pointed to the red tag. I thought she would understand. Most people do. They say, “Oh, okay,” and then they look for another plant. This job teaches you to be flexible, to help people find the next best thing.
But she did not say “Oh, okay.” She put her hands on her hips. Her voice got a bit louder. She said, “No, it’s not. I want that fern. I saw it first. You can just take that tag off. I’ll pay for it now.” I felt a little twist in my stomach. I said, “I am sorry, but we really can’t do that. It belongs to another customer. It is not fair to her.” The dog in her bag started to bark, small, sharp barks. It sounded like a tiny, angry alarm. The blonde lady did not tell her dog to be quiet. She just looked at me with those fixed eyes. She seemed very sure of herself, like she had thought this all out.
She stepped closer. Her perfume was even stronger now. She said, “Look, I know how these things work. Sometimes a plant is held, but if a new customer wants it more, you just sell it. I’m a good customer here. I buy many things. That lady, she can wait. Or she can get another one.” I told her again, “Ma’am, this is the only silver fern we received. It is very special. We cannot just give it away. Mrs. Jenkins has been waiting for this one for months. We even called her when it arrived.” I felt like I was saying the same thing again and again, but she was not hearing me. It was like her ears were closed to my words. She was not listening to reason.
Just then, I saw Mrs. Jenkins’s son walking towards us. He was a quiet man, a little bit shy. He came in often to pick up things for his mother. He saw us, and he saw the blonde lady standing next to his mother’s fern. He looked confused. He held a piece of paper, probably the pickup slip. His face looked a little sad. He did not say anything, but his eyes asked, “What is happening?”
Seeing him, so polite and quiet, and then looking at this blonde lady who would not give up, something inside me changed. My usual calm, my way of just letting things unfold, it snapped. I felt hot in my face. I stopped being nice. I looked her right in the eyes. I said, my voice louder than before, “Listen. This fern is not for you. It is for this man’s mother. She bought it. It is her property now. You cannot have it.” I did not shout, but my voice was firm, strong, like a big oak tree. The blonde lady’s dog, it started to yap even louder now, a frantic noise. She still did not quiet it.
Suddenly, a little cry burst out from a nearby aisle. A small child, maybe two or three years old, was sitting in a shopping cart and had dropped a toy. The cry was sharp and surprised, cutting through the yapping dog and our talking. It made everyone around us look over. The blonde lady paused, just for a moment, her eyes darting to the child. The child’s parent quickly picked up the toy and soothed the child, but the noise had made our argument even more public. People were definitely watching us now, pretending not to, but their eyes were there.
I saw another customer, a man with a big beard, looking very annoyed by the dog’s barking. He pulled out his phone, holding it to his ear, and walked a little further away, but I heard him say, “Can I speak to a manager?” He was calling someone about the noise, or maybe about the scene. I hoped a manager would come. Maybe they could make her understand.
But no manager came. The minute of looking at the child, the minute of the phone call, it was just enough for her. The blonde lady’s eyes, they went from me, to the quiet son, and then to the fern. A new idea seemed to sparkle in her mind. Her dog barked one last time, a small sharp sound. She looked at the son, then at me. She made a big sigh. She said, “Fine. If you want to make a scene over a plant, then fine. But you know what? This is bad customer service. Really bad.” She turned her head, looking at the son again, her mouth in a tight line. Then, very quickly, before I could understand what she was doing, she reached out and pulled a small, decorative bird statue from a nearby display table. It was one of those cute ceramic ones we sell for like ten dollars. She held it up, looking at it like she had just found treasure. She nodded her head, a little smirk on her face. Then, without another word, she marched straight to the checkout, the dog still yapping sometimes, and the small bird in her hand. She paid for the bird statue, then walked out of the store, her head held high, like she had won something important.
I just stood there. The quiet son stood there too, looking at the space where she had been. The silver fern still stood in its pot, safe. But the quiet son, he looked so tired. He just wanted to pick up his mother’s plant and go home. He should not have had to deal with that. I felt very sorry for him, that his simple job of picking up a plant had turned into such a big, noisy trouble. I went to him. I said, “I am so sorry about that. She was very rude.” He just nodded, a small, sad movement of his head. He did not say anything, but I knew he just wanted to forget this ever happened.
