Conceited

 

 Another story of life

 I live in a nice neighborhood. Not too fancy, not too sweet. People keep up their yards and wave politely when I ride by.

 There are shopping centers within walking distance that have been established for years and frequent by the neighbors.

 Quaint little shops and boutiques that sell fashion, trinkets among cozy little delis are always inviting and comfortable. There are no big box stores. You can buy fine wine but no dishwashers.

 Many hours have been spent window-shopping and engaging with the proprietors. More than a few shekels were exchanged for quality products and wisdom. Some prices were out of the range of my budget but they would still allow me to look.

 As the story goes, my wife comes home troubled. She had been up the street to one of these establishments and had been treated unfairly.

 Normally I would just shake this off and try to focus on a positive interaction with another merchant, but this got under my skin.

 

 I’ve never worked retail, but fully understand a sales clerk must evaluate a customer for revenue potential, but to dismiss is unforgivable.

 I’ve also known enough people who have privilege due to wealth or position. Some are pleasant to be around and others aren’t but we run in different circles.

 I called in a few favors.

 

 A few friends got one of their fancy cars and we gathered for a rumble. We didn’t dress to the nines, but were presentable. I told them my game plan and they all agreed to willingly participate.

 On the assigned day we drove to the front of the establishment. It was a fine sunny fall day, so we took our time before entering.

 We were immediately greeted by a bored employee looking for something other to do than dust antiques. He smiled politely with the phrase, “Can I assist you gentlemen?”

 “I’d like to see your manager.” I replied.

 As he became befuddled, my friends started spreading out checking the items displayed.

 “I’m sure I can help you.”

 I just stood still.

 An older man walked up and asked if there was a problem.

 “Are you the manager?” I asked.

 “Yes sir”, he replied looking annoyed by the interruption to the daily routine.

 “Do you own this.. business?”

 “No sir, I am the manager. I’m sure I can handle whatever you need. I’d rather not disturb the owner unless…”

 “I want to see the owner.”

 “I’ll have to call him and…”

 “Now!”

 My friends continued checking price tags and examine items pointing out details to each other in a subtle hush.

 The manager came back and said the owner would be here in a few minutes. Still unaware of what was about to happen, he offered his condolences at any grievance with well-mannered etiquette of a fine butler.

 My friends and I gathered outside, had a smoke and stood in deep discussion. We had to stifle the laugher for the comedy that was about to take place.

 As if scripted, the manager opened the door and beckoned us back for the owner had arrived.

 

 Stop for a moment and remember where this all started.

 

 We walked back up the steps, probably looking like some mobsters by this time. Our youth or long hair may have cast doubts but even in a swanky neighborhood a Silver Cloud gives a sense of validity.

 An older, seemingly disturbed gentleman in a golf shirt and ruffled slacked was directed by the manager toward us.

 “Can I help you?”

 Looking around the walls and ceiling I asked, “Do you own this place?”

 “Yes, this is my estab...”

 I raised my hand before he could finish his sentence.

 “My wife came in here to shop and was treated badly.”

 The owner, manager and clerk all stared at each other silently.

“Sir, I’m sure we can make this right”, the manager whimpered.

 Again I turned away and huddled with my friends. We pointed to certain areas and nodded.

 “You don’t know who I am, do you?” I asked focused on the owner.

 “No sir, but I think we can come to some…”

 The hand was back up.

 “This salesperson was rude, no, dismissive of my wife when she came in here and I want him fired.”

 There was a pregnant pause.

 “Sir”, the salesman pleaded, “I certainly didn’t mean to…”

 Just to make a point, I pulled out a checkbook and some money spilled to the floor.

 “How much?”

 The manager and owner looked at each other with that dazed confusion.

 “How much to buy this whole rotten place. I’m going to buy it.”

 The owner stammered that lawyers would have to be involved and the inventory and the…

 “I’m going to buy it now. Lock, stock and barrel. Floor to ceiling. What is your asking price?”

 I could hear my friends starting to lose their composure but I pressed forward. They started moving tables and placing items on the floor to keep it together.

 “Now I’m the new owner and you twit are fired”, I pointed to the salesman. “You too”, I said turning to the flushed manager. 

 “We will clear out all this crap and bring in some quality items fit for the customers with fine taste.”

 Silence.

 “And we will treat everyone who walks in that door with respect.”

 More silence.

 Before my friends could break up, I stopped.

 

 “No! Wait. It is not worth it. I’ll just tell my wife and her friends and associates to boycott this place. That should do it.”

 We turned in unison and walked out the door. Climbing in the Rolls we finally broke down. We drove off after a great performance watching the manager at the door waving a handful of Benjamin’s I’d dropped while pulling out the checkbook.

 

 It is all about attitude.

 

The establishment of rare antiques and knick-knacks went out of business and was converted to an office building, now abandoned.

I don’t do things like this very often, but sometimes it is good to get the last laugh.

 

PS: The bills were counterfeit.