every drop from a sale. Who’s more likely to think that the already-expensive doll would need an extra denim jacket, a real leather purse, and a haircut and style? Not the parent.
Amber was accustomed to dealing with girls from about ages three to thirteen. For a customer in the upper range, she would take on a conspiratorial air, displaying an understanding of how stupid parents are. She’d lean in to show the girl sample pictures, being sure not to let Mom or Dad see, because what do parents know? Only how to ruin things. Only how to embarrass daughters.
For a young customer, Amber would come from around the desk and squat down so the little girl wouldn’t be forced to crane her neck up. Amber would hold a serious conversation regarding doll needs with an equal. A three-year-old equal.
But she had no protocols for dealing with someone who entered the store with the awkward but practiced motion of both ducking to avoid the top of the door frame and leaning to avoid popping his balloon head on the sharp elbow of the pneumatic hinge. It took her another moment just to find, “Hello.” And then another moment followed. From her long struggle with anxiety, Amber knew you only felt every second of life during the worst times. Each moment stood separate from every other. Reality slowed, allowing a glimpse of the space between the frames. It would make a nice moment even better, but nice moments flew by. Ones like this stretched on forever.
Then a woman squeezed in around the giant. She wore a simple white blouse tucked into high-waisted mom jeans. “Hello,” she said in the nasal voice Amber recognized as the car alarm from several disjointed moments earlier. “This is Robert Milton. He prefers ‘Bobby.’ I’m his nurse, Carol. We were headed for the ice-cream parlor down the way, but your store seems to have grabbed Bobby’s attention.”
The individual pieces were beginning to form a picture. The frames sped up, turned into a movie. Following the standard operating procedure to talk to the client rather than the purse holder, Amber said, “Hello, Bobby, I’m Amber. It’s very nice to meet you. Are you just looking today?” Then she smiled and winked at Carol, who seemed relieved at the friendly response.
Bobby flicked his eyes to Amber, then turned toward a wall of doll heads. He walked over and leaned down to more closely examine them.
“I’m sorry,” Carol said. “He’s harmless and generally very well-behaved, but sometimes he’ll get an idea in his head and a team of Clydesdales couldn’t change his course.”
“My goodness, I imagine so. He’s a big fella.” That was a severe understatement. Amber had seen taller men before. She guessed Bobby was 6’9” or 6’10”, and there were a couple of poor guys in town who drew stares at nearly 7’ and would have only looked normal on a basketball court. But they were all thin. She’d never seen a tall man so large. He had to weigh almost four hundred pounds. And while he had a doughy quality to him, he was proportionate. His shoulders were nearly too wide to fit through the door, and his chest looked almost as deep as he was wide. His jeans and flannel shirt must have been custom made, having proportions similar to that of a gigantic toddler rather than a fat man. Even his big, barely-laced yellow work boots contributed to an oddly childlike demeanor.
Amber wanted to ask what was wrong with him, but couldn’t, of course. Luckily, Carol seemed to understand that her role as nurse for someone like Bobby included settling other people’s fears.
“He might want a doll. Like I said, if he sets his mind on it, it’ll be impossible to get him out of here without one. He functions at the same level as a young child except he doesn’t speak. I know he looks scary, but Bobby is really very sweet. Would you be comfortable helping us?”
Amber smiled. She felt a bit guilty for being so taken aback by the poor man. She imagined he picked up on
Amber was accustomed to dealing with girls from about ages three to thirteen. For a customer in the upper range, she would take on a conspiratorial air, displaying an understanding of how stupid parents are. She’d lean in to show the girl sample pictures, being sure not to let Mom or Dad see, because what do parents know? Only how to ruin things. Only how to embarrass daughters.
For a young customer, Amber would come from around the desk and squat down so the little girl wouldn’t be forced to crane her neck up. Amber would hold a serious conversation regarding doll needs with an equal. A three-year-old equal.
But she had no protocols for dealing with someone who entered the store with the awkward but practiced motion of both ducking to avoid the top of the door frame and leaning to avoid popping his balloon head on the sharp elbow of the pneumatic hinge. It took her another moment just to find, “Hello.” And then another moment followed. From her long struggle with anxiety, Amber knew you only felt every second of life during the worst times. Each moment stood separate from every other. Reality slowed, allowing a glimpse of the space between the frames. It would make a nice moment even better, but nice moments flew by. Ones like this stretched on forever.
Then a woman squeezed in around the giant. She wore a simple white blouse tucked into high-waisted mom jeans. “Hello,” she said in the nasal voice Amber recognized as the car alarm from several disjointed moments earlier. “This is Robert Milton. He prefers ‘Bobby.’ I’m his nurse, Carol. We were headed for the ice-cream parlor down the way, but your store seems to have grabbed Bobby’s attention.”
The individual pieces were beginning to form a picture. The frames sped up, turned into a movie. Following the standard operating procedure to talk to the client rather than the purse holder, Amber said, “Hello, Bobby, I’m Amber. It’s very nice to meet you. Are you just looking today?” Then she smiled and winked at Carol, who seemed relieved at the friendly response.
Bobby flicked his eyes to Amber, then turned toward a wall of doll heads. He walked over and leaned down to more closely examine them.
“I’m sorry,” Carol said. “He’s harmless and generally very well-behaved, but sometimes he’ll get an idea in his head and a team of Clydesdales couldn’t change his course.”
“My goodness, I imagine so. He’s a big fella.” That was a severe understatement. Amber had seen taller men before. She guessed Bobby was 6’9” or 6’10”, and there were a couple of poor guys in town who drew stares at nearly 7’ and would have only looked normal on a basketball court. But they were all thin. She’d never seen a tall man so large. He had to weigh almost four hundred pounds. And while he had a doughy quality to him, he was proportionate. His shoulders were nearly too wide to fit through the door, and his chest looked almost as deep as he was wide. His jeans and flannel shirt must have been custom made, having proportions similar to that of a gigantic toddler rather than a fat man. Even his big, barely-laced yellow work boots contributed to an oddly childlike demeanor.
Amber wanted to ask what was wrong with him, but couldn’t, of course. Luckily, Carol seemed to understand that her role as nurse for someone like Bobby included settling other people’s fears.
“He might want a doll. Like I said, if he sets his mind on it, it’ll be impossible to get him out of here without one. He functions at the same level as a young child except he doesn’t speak. I know he looks scary, but Bobby is really very sweet. Would you be comfortable helping us?”
Amber smiled. She felt a bit guilty for being so taken aback by the poor man. She imagined he picked up on
Similar Books
