gerry and the princess
In the office there is a girl who has dark eyebrows and oval cheeks like a Mediterranean princess. She’s a fruitless cunt, I think, but I haven’t proved it yet. Maybe I just haven’t found her stamen.
My back is to her and there’s a cubicle slab between us; she’s on the phone, and she’s giving what-for to a forlorn human on the other side of the line. The Staten Island creeps bigger and bigger into her voice as the tirade crescendos: “Gerry, the girls in your store don’t deserve to work in customer service! When I was there yesterday I was insulted, all of us were insulted, and your girls didn’t even know how to handle themselves. They had no conception of the situation whatsoever! After I was handed a dress two sizes too big — they had my size, Gerry, on file, because I called ahead to give all our sizes! we’re a bridal party for godsakes — after she handed me the wrong dress I asked for my size, a 2, and she rolled her eyes at me! At me, for wanting to try on my size! Is that what you call customer service, Gerry?”
The princess gives pause for Gerry to ask something inconsequential. The air conditioner hums and keyboards tap around us. The telephone cord dangles against the counter. Nothing Gerry can say will make this better.
“I come from a customer service background, Gerry. I worked at Kleinfeld’s Dresses here in the city. I know what customer service is, and I know how to give it, and I know how to get it. And I did not receive it yesterday at your store. It’s hard enough getting married, but being handed the wrong dress at a fitting? I know what size I am, Gerry, and your girls wouldn’t believe me. I am what size I am!”
She rails on for three minutes, then a sudden complacency enters her voice. It might be exhaustion, or perhaps Gerry has hit the right buttons. The princess says, “I wish you were there the other night, Gerry, because the way you’re handling this is really fabulous.”
She hangs up the phone and sighs.
The princess must be a self-pollinator, I thought.