The
colors of the old painting were muted tones, almost appearing dusty. The
chair in the painting was a wooden rocker with an elderly print material on the
seat and back. Just looking at it I could feel the uncomfortable squeak
and hear the springs jabbing me.
The employee manning the register was multi-tasking; eating her sandwich while playing Angry Birds on her iphone. I could hear them as they flew through the air and then exploded. It made me happy I no longer had employees to be concerned with.
The antique store smelled old and the wooden floor was warped and creaked. I looked back up at the old painting. I could see by the price tag they had no idea what they had. I wanted to reach up and snatch it off the wall, buy it as quickly as I could and head for the hills. My problem was my ethics. I'd feel like a crook. It would haunt me, I know it would.
The little bell hanging over the front door tinkled; someone else had just come in. The employee didn't even look up. Just as easily it could have been someone leaving, and with anything tucked under their coat. I felt bad for the owner of this store, whoever they were.
Now that there was someone else in the store besides me, I grew concerned they would spot the painting, grab it and not think twice about ripping these people off. Then again, I knew what I was doing. I was justifying buying it. I was telling myself I was the "good guy" in this story. I reached up and lifted the painting from the wall. I'd simply take it to the register and ask to see the store owner. Maybe they were in the back room, or next door. I'd offer them a fair price and if they went for it, I'd feel good, they'd make more money and everyone would win.
I stood there at the counter for a moment, waiting for the girl to look up. She finally did; she looked to once again pick up her sandwich, then looked at me as if I were a disruption to her busy day.
Annoyed, she said: "Can I help you?"
I wanted desperately to tell her she was fired, but obviously I couldn't. I lifted the painting up and laid it on the counter.
"I'll take this." I pulled several twenties from my wallet and counted out the exact asking price, plus tax.
As she rang it up I wanted to stop her, I wanted to stick to my original plan of asking for the owner and negotiating a fair price, but this employee had pushed my buttons, now I was the one bothered, annoyed. This isn't how you treat customers, I thought to myself, as an interruption. "I'd like you to wrap this if you don't mind, maybe heavy, brown paper if you have it. And tie it with some twine or tape it real good. Thank you."
After she completed the transaction she pulled a large sheet of butcher paper from under the counter, carefully flipped the painting over and laid it onto the brown paper. She cut the price tag off and handed it to me, then as she started wrapping it I noticed the back of the frame was stamped with, NFS, with a signature scribbled next to it.
I instantly knew that it had been marked not for sale. I held my breath waiting to see if she would notice it, and if she did, would she know what it meant? Just then the second customer, who had come in moments ago, walked up to the counter and was standing right next to me. He was also watching the clerk attempt to wrap the painting.
"You've cut the paper too short," he said, trying to be helpful. The girl gave him the same annoyed look she had given me. She then lifted the painting slightly and pulled the paper completely out from under it. "I'll start over," she grumbled, and ripped a much larger piece off the roll under the counter.
"That should be plenty." I said, as I quickly attempted to give her a hand wrapping it.
The man next to me then asked if we would flip it over so he could see it before we wrapped it.
"I'm in sort of a hurry," I said, as I kept wrapping.
When it was all wrapped I carried it out to my car and carefully laid it in the trunk, on top of an old army blanket. I got in and just sat behind the steering wheel, staring back into the store. I wanted to drive away, make my get-a-way, as they say, but I just sat there.
The employee manning the register was multi-tasking; eating her sandwich while playing Angry Birds on her iphone. I could hear them as they flew through the air and then exploded. It made me happy I no longer had employees to be concerned with.
The antique store smelled old and the wooden floor was warped and creaked. I looked back up at the old painting. I could see by the price tag they had no idea what they had. I wanted to reach up and snatch it off the wall, buy it as quickly as I could and head for the hills. My problem was my ethics. I'd feel like a crook. It would haunt me, I know it would.
The little bell hanging over the front door tinkled; someone else had just come in. The employee didn't even look up. Just as easily it could have been someone leaving, and with anything tucked under their coat. I felt bad for the owner of this store, whoever they were.
Now that there was someone else in the store besides me, I grew concerned they would spot the painting, grab it and not think twice about ripping these people off. Then again, I knew what I was doing. I was justifying buying it. I was telling myself I was the "good guy" in this story. I reached up and lifted the painting from the wall. I'd simply take it to the register and ask to see the store owner. Maybe they were in the back room, or next door. I'd offer them a fair price and if they went for it, I'd feel good, they'd make more money and everyone would win.
I stood there at the counter for a moment, waiting for the girl to look up. She finally did; she looked to once again pick up her sandwich, then looked at me as if I were a disruption to her busy day.
Annoyed, she said: "Can I help you?"
I wanted desperately to tell her she was fired, but obviously I couldn't. I lifted the painting up and laid it on the counter.
"I'll take this." I pulled several twenties from my wallet and counted out the exact asking price, plus tax.
As she rang it up I wanted to stop her, I wanted to stick to my original plan of asking for the owner and negotiating a fair price, but this employee had pushed my buttons, now I was the one bothered, annoyed. This isn't how you treat customers, I thought to myself, as an interruption. "I'd like you to wrap this if you don't mind, maybe heavy, brown paper if you have it. And tie it with some twine or tape it real good. Thank you."
After she completed the transaction she pulled a large sheet of butcher paper from under the counter, carefully flipped the painting over and laid it onto the brown paper. She cut the price tag off and handed it to me, then as she started wrapping it I noticed the back of the frame was stamped with, NFS, with a signature scribbled next to it.
I instantly knew that it had been marked not for sale. I held my breath waiting to see if she would notice it, and if she did, would she know what it meant? Just then the second customer, who had come in moments ago, walked up to the counter and was standing right next to me. He was also watching the clerk attempt to wrap the painting.
"You've cut the paper too short," he said, trying to be helpful. The girl gave him the same annoyed look she had given me. She then lifted the painting slightly and pulled the paper completely out from under it. "I'll start over," she grumbled, and ripped a much larger piece off the roll under the counter.
"That should be plenty." I said, as I quickly attempted to give her a hand wrapping it.
The man next to me then asked if we would flip it over so he could see it before we wrapped it.
"I'm in sort of a hurry," I said, as I kept wrapping.
When it was all wrapped I carried it out to my car and carefully laid it in the trunk, on top of an old army blanket. I got in and just sat behind the steering wheel, staring back into the store. I wanted to drive away, make my get-a-way, as they say, but I just sat there.
This
is wrong, I muttered. After the other
customer left the store the clerk walked over, locked the door and flipped the
sign over. It said out to lunch. I knew she had already eaten her lunch; she
just didn’t want to wait on any more customers.
I felt bad for whoever it was who’d hired her. What a miserable employee she was.
I couldn’t bring myself to drive away with the
painting. I would sit there and hope the
owner of the shop would show up before it got too late. What I hadn’t counted on was what happened
next.
to be continued…
