Ten Ways to Better Customer Relations
by Sidura Ludwig
published in Are You She, ed. Lesley Glaister, Tindal Street Press, 2004
After opening her card shop and then observing other small businesses in Winnipeg, Cathy decided that someone needed to write an idiot's guide to customer relations. A top ten list. Every night, before she went to sleep, Cathy thought about her customers that day and how she'd handled them. If she did something particularly right, like guess the scent of hand cream they'd like by their perfume, Cathy wrote it down in her journal. After a while, the list looked something like this:
Cathy's Top Ten Guide to Better Customer Relations
1. Be attentive - notice your customer's taste by looking at their clothes, jewellery, glasses, etc. You can know what they'd like before they ask for your help.
2. Play soft music, but not always classical. Keep a CD collection of local folk artists. People feel special when they hear local music.
3. Always smile.
And so on.
She planned, when she completed this guide, to type it up and paste it behind the counter so that the girls could internalize it. Like a policy. They were pretty good, her girls. Only once did she catch Sarah Jane arguing with a man about his change. She had forgotten to give him his five-dollar bill with his forty-six cents. Just plain forgot. The man finally had to go through his receipt in front of her and when she realized what she had done she placed the bill on the counter and then walked to the back of the store where she cried out of humiliation. Cathy let her be for twenty minutes and then she was fine.
That same night, Cathy started another list called: Ten Ways to Better Staff Relations :
1. Give them their space.
2. Let them make mistakes.
3. Thank them when they make extra effort - not all the time otherwise it starts to sound false.
Etcetera.
Cathy's girls came to her from the university . They worked for her around their class schedules, and when the store wasn't busy, they exchanged tips on mean-spirited professors, essays on post-colonial Canadian storytelling, and which second-hand clothing shops had the best deals. Cathy had twelve employees altogether, all part-time, including seven students, one friend whose children had either married or moved away, and four young dancers from the studio across the street. She structured her employee schedule carefully, so that the dancers were never in the store on their own (this had nothing to do with trust, but more to do with safety. The dancers were no more than eighteen years old and all less than a hundred pounds), and either she, or her friend were in the store at all times. Also, she found products in her line of business sold better when a more mature woman was present and appeared to be in charge.
Cathy didn't only sell cards. She carried handmade jewellery, spiritual relaxation CDs, journals and scented candles. She also sold a selection of body products made locally by a woman on a farm outside of Selkirk. Customers who came regularly remarked that they could always be sure to find something different at Cathy's. Some of them found they couldn't buy something for someone else without making a purchase for themselves as well. Cathy never forced products on people - and she made sure her staff knew not to as well. What she was particularly talented at was talking to her customers, finding out their stories and then casually mentioning a new item in which they might be interested - lavender eye pillows for women who'd been working late at the office, aromatherapy diffusers for students with head colds, a hand-woven throw to cover a sagging futon. People left Cathy's feeling like they had been given a gift. Often, they forgot they had spent any money at all.
When she started out, Cathy called her business Cathy's Cards, because she used to design her own with pressed flowers, dried leaves and thin, Japanese paper. When she bought the storefront in Osborne Village, she dropped ''Cards'' and just called it Cathy's. As if people were coming over to visit.
It's not that she was lonely - please, she wouldn't want you to think that. Cathy had a daughter, Abby, who lived with her and studied law at the University of Manitoba (she also took three shifts in the store during the week). When they shared shifts at the store, people mistook them for sisters. (Cathy, who was of Ukrainian heritage, had plump skin and a short, blond bob. She'd always looked younger than she was.) She had elderly parents in the Wellesley Retirement Centre, whom she visited on Wednesday evenings and Sunday mornings. She had her closest girlfriend, Doreen, who agreed all too eagerly to come work in her store when she told her she was expanding out of her basement craft workshop (''Whatever you need',' Doreen told her. ''After all this time, it's so good to see you moving on'.' And to her husband who questioned why she would want to go work in retail, now: ''I'll do anything to help Cathy get back into the real world'.'). Both women were short, round, and wore turtleneck knit sweaters with handcrafted brooches and woven silk scarves. Cathy had the university girls who cried on her shoulder when their boyfriends were playing up, and she had her dancer girls who made friendship bracelets and beaded earrings, and came running to show her first when they had their braces off.
When Cathy first opened the store, it was like she had given birth to an enormous family that kept expanding whenever someone new came in. After years of shutting herself away to care for her sick husband; of lying awake night after night once he was gone, shaking in their empty bed; and then years later of staying in to make sure that Abby had everything she needed, even if she didn't have a father - Cathy felt she wasn't in a position to turn anyone away who needed looking after. Soon after the store opened, and it became obvious that people were drawn to it not just for the pretty things, but because talking to Cathy was like cheap therapy, Doreen turned to her and said, ''Dollface, you were meant to be a matriarch of a huge clan.''
Cathy blushed a bit, but on her way to the back of the store, she smiled, thinking, Maybe I am. Maybe this is it.
Many shop owners in Winnipeg hate Christmas. The late-night inventory and then sub-zero temperatures to the car in darkened parking lots; the cold, frantic customers, bursting into stores as if the wind outside had pushed them in against their will; the children with woollen mittens sticky from peppermint candy canes, and the mess they leave on glass shelving units. If it weren't for the profits, many would close up over December and move to Palm Springs. Except for Cathy. She played CBC 2 on the radio with Jurgen Goth, and filled the store with a cappella groups and harpsichord versions of 'God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen'. She offered customers free hot cinnamon coffee, and shortbread for the children. She decorated her store in tinsel and stained-glass stars and sold hand-carved wooden tree ornaments. One evening she stayed late with Abby to erect the Christmas tree, only to find that the dancers from across the street were waiting to sing her carols and to give her a cup of hot chocolate.
They all stayed around to help decorate the tree, and in all of the commotion of sparkling streamers, tissue snowflakes and giggling, Cathy didn't notice the tall man bundled in a tweed coat and a thick, brown knit scarf making his way out of the falling snow and into the doorway which should have been locked. He stamped his feet lightly on the mat, announcing his presence, but no one was listening, and then made his way to the side of the store where the body lotions were.
Abby saw him first.
''Mum',' she said, in a whisper. ''Should he be in here'?'
Cathy looked up and saw him picking the lotions up and putting them back in a fluid motion, as if the bottles might burst if he held them for too long.
Cathy hung her wooden angel and waded through the girls around the tree to get to the other end of the store.
''Excuse me',' she said to the man, who, startled, backed away from the shelving unit and began to look around, realizing that the lights were off and that he was the only customer in the store. The first thing Cathy noticed was that she couldn't tell the colour of his eyes; they were green and blue with specks of brown. His nose was slightly crooked near the ridge, and his skin was dry, flaking where he had shaved that morning.
''We're not actually open,'' Cathy said. The man had pale lips and silver hair, shot with black escaping from his cap. ''But is there anything I can help you with?''
He spoke softly. 'Do you have any rose-water hand cream?' he asked, and then, 'I'm so sorry to bother you. I assumed you were open. I can come back . . .'Cathy was already looking through the bottles on the shelf. 'I know we have some on order, but I don't see any here. It will probably be in the shipment coming tomorrow. Would you like some vanilla hand cream instead?'
'No,' the man said, tightening his scarf. 'I'll have to come back. Really sorry to bother you. And the girls. I didn't mean to get in the way of the party.'
'You didn't.' Cathy said, walking with him to the door. She only came up to his shoulder. His coat smelled like wet wool and cedar. 'Come back tomorrow. I'll have some then.'
He tipped his hat as he walked away.
The next day when the shipment arrived, Cathy put a bottle of the hand cream behind the counter. Rule number six from her Better Customer Service List was to always remember requests. She didn't know the man's name, so she wrote on a stick note, 'Tall man, soft voice, tweed cap', and stuck it on the bottle. He came into the store near the end of the day, and Cathy put the bottle onto the front counter as he came through the door. She put the sticky note in her pocket.
'Thank you,' he said gently, reaching for his wallet. 'My wife will be so pleased.'
'Is this a Christmas gift?' Cathy asked. 'Do you want me to wrap it for you?'
'No, it's not,' he said. 'It's just something she's been asking for a lot lately. It's always been her favourite. I'll take it in the bag. That will be fine.'
'Your wife is very lucky to have a husband who buys her presents for no reason,' Cathy said. She put the bottle into paper bag with a straw handle, and tied it up with ribbon, to look festive.
The man's cheeks flushed a bit pink, back to his earlobes. It may have been the cold, but still Cathy looked away so as not to embarrass him further. 'Yes, well,' he tried and then, because he didn't really have anything to add, he let out a long sigh, like the weight of his body sinking into a seat.
'Many thanks for this. I'll see you again.'
'You're welcome,' Cathy said. 'Merry Christmas.'
She did see him again. Monday the following week, he came into the store at lunchtime and looked at the gift cards. Cathy was at the back of the store and she watched him from her seat at the computer. He would never know that she could look at him from there, staring, camouflaged by the boxes, invoices and the busyness she was meant to be involved with. He looked at the birthday cards with six-line poems. He picked up a purple one with an embossed image of a lily, read it through, and then put it back. Cathy thought to show him her collection of handmade cards, but that would mean getting up and losing her privileged position. He stood stooped with his head tilted to one side, reading each card in the row. When he had read them all, he left.
Sometimes, in the evening, Cathy missed her husband's hand finding her shoulder, rubbing her neck without her asking. It had been a long time since she felt it, and she was always surprised how intense the longing could be. That evening, sitting on her couch, wrapped in a quilted throw, Cathy had a flash of the Tweed Man's hand, palm dry, fingers gently manipulating her muscle. The image came and left her so suddenly, she didn't know whether to feel lonely or giddy.
Over the busy Christmas period it was difficult for Cathy to spend quality time with her customers. She particularly liked to talk to people visiting the city, especially those from out East, who, despite the cold, always remarked how friendly Winnipeg was. She felt it her duty, like an ambassador, to prove their theory, and she would ask them all kinds of questions about their travels, while suggesting little-known tourist spots to visit. However, in December, the best she could hope for was to smile at the shoppers and maybe dig up an old memory to impress them with.
'How did your mother like those earrings?'
'Have you had a chance to try the bath balms yet?'
'Is your wife enjoying the rose-water cream?'
'Yes,' he answered, while purchasing some refrigerator magnets, a collection of six pressed Manitoba flowers. 'She puts it on the morning and then again in the evening.' He let go of a quick laugh. 'Sometimes it's like sleeping in a flower bed.'
'At least you have sweet dreams,' she said to him. One of her lessons in customer relations was to be interested in what they are telling you, but not too nosy. This was becoming difficult with the man in the tweed coat. She found herself noticing the smell of his spicy aftershave and wondering whether he was the type of man to shower in the morning, the evening, or even both? She would have listened to him tell her how he made his coffee in the morning, if he had wanted. She imagined his wife, graceful but not young, with creamy, soft skin. Cathy imagined that he watched his rose-scented wife sleeping beside him, grateful that she has slept in that same spot for the last forty years, or so. Did he lie awake, in love with this scent? Did she get to claim any part, for having sold it to him?
He was signing his credit card receipt when Cathy said all of a sudden, 'I'm thinking of adding a book section to the shop. Gifty-things - like cookbooks and coffee table books. And then maybe an area for local writers. What do you think?'
'Oh,' he said, taking a step back, putting his wallet away inside his jacket. She thought of her guide and decided to add another point to it that evening: Make your customers feel important.
'Oh, well. I think that's a great idea. I'm sure you'd make it work. Yes, well done.'
And with that he straightened his cap and left.
Doreen whistled from behind the counter. Something like 'Santa Claus Is Coming to Town', but Cathy wasn't sure.
It was only when she was tidying up the store, and Doreen had already gone home, that Cathy found the credit card. David E. Wiffen. She wondered what the E stood for. All this time she hadn't known his name and yet she never imagined he would have a middle name as well. Edward? Ethan? Ezra? Was it fair to be given only partial information? And she didn't want to wait until she saw him next to find out. There was only one Wiffen, D. in the phone book, on Waterloo Street, number 847. When she dialled the number, there was no answer; so Cathy placed the card in her pocket, locked up the store and decided to stop off there on her way home.
David E. Wiffen's house was a bungalow set back from the road by a long lawn. The living-room window faced the front street and the curtains were drawn back, even though it was evening. Some Christmas lights flickered on and off around the window, red and blue winks, shaped like icicles. It had been a windy day, and dry snow had blown onto the porch and walkway, making tiny, frozen waves over the sidewalk which otherwise had been recently cleared. It looked like David used a snow-clearing service and Cathy thought, Good. He's too old to be shovelling heavy snow himself.
The lights were on inside the house and when she rang the doorbell she heard shuffling and muffled voices.
'I'll be right there,' he called. There were sounds from the kitchen: a setting down of pans and dishes; something small, like cutlery, falling to the floor.
David opened the door halfway and stuck his head around. A woman from inside called, 'Who is it? Who's there?'
'Don't worry,' he called back. 'I've got it.'
Then he turned to Cathy. 'Oh, hello. Did I forget something?'
'Yes.' She reached inside her pocket for the card, which felt even stiffer from the cold. 'Your credit card. I found it after you left. There was only on D. Wiffen in the phone book.'
'Yoowhoo,' called the woman. 'Who's there? Who's talking?'
'Don't worry, Edith. I'm right here by the door,' he answered. Cathy could hear Edith in the kitchen, mumbling oh dear, oh dear over and over again to herself.
'My wife gets anxious when she can't see me,' he said to Cathy, his voice low, as if apologizing. 'She gets confused very easily. Thank you for coming by. That was very kind of you. I hope it wasn't out of your way.'
'No,' Cathy said. But she felt very out of her way. Very much on a porch where she should never have stood. 'You're on my way home.'
David closed the door and Cathy watched her breath hanging in front of her, frozen.
After that, Cathy stopped day-dreaming. She stopped pretending that David's graceful wife was herself. She used to wonder what his lips, a bit chapped and cool from the icy wind, would feel like against her forehead at the end of the day. She stopped all of that, and concentrated on dusting her shop, on arranging the candles and picture frames so that they looked fresh. She bought an advent calendar and all her girls told her to stop feeding them so much chocolate because they were getting too fat. She added more points to her list, such as: Throw scented beads into gift bags with the tissue paper and Develop promotions customers can participate in, like My Favourite Thing about Winnipeg and Top Ten Christmas Songs.
She stayed up late in her workshop and made earrings for each of her employees, choosing beads to match their eye colour and bending the gold wire with tweezers into curls and boxes. When she held the jewellery in front of her, they spun like mini mobiles, the beads catching the lamplight and twinkling.
At the store, Doreen came by one early morning when she wasn't scheduled to.
'I just need a little something,' she said. 'You don't mind that I've come by? To do my Christmas shopping? You know I'd rather give you the business.'
'You look tired,' she continued. 'You're working too hard again, aren't you.'
'Yes,' said a man's voice. 'She is. Not that she would admit it.'
David had come up behind Doreen, carrying two Styrofoam cups. The lids were open a bit and steam rose quickly, attracted to the crisp morning air.
'Hmm,' Doreen said, turning away. She whistled again. This time she whistled 'Mr. Sandman' very obviously.
David set the cups down on the counter and took off his hat, as if staying for the morning. Cathy hadn't had a chance to vacuum and the carpet was gritty from wet boots and salt.
'One is for you,' he said, while she stood, watching. Doreen stayed by the candles, but not too far away. 'Please have some.'
'You didn't have to,' Cathy said. She had spent so much energy forgetting him that his face peering down at her caught her breath and she struggled for a moment to find it again. She had learned, after that night when she stood on his porch, that there is a limit to how much one should know about one's customers. That's what she wrote in her journal. Rule number 11: Know when to stop . She wanted to serve all of her patrons with respect, and none with pity.
Still, she lifted the cup to her lips.
'This is what I should have done when you came by,' David explained. 'The proper thing would have been to ask you in for a hot drink.'
'No, not at all. I didn't want to disturb you.'
'I would have dropped in sooner, but Edith hasn't been well these last couple of weeks, and I've had to rush home to relieve the careworker.'
This was knowing too much. Now they were talking like friends. Now she was invited into his life because she'd returned his credit card. And he expected her to accept the invitation because he'd brought her coffee.
'It's been very busy here because of the holiday,' she answered.
He sipped his coffee and they were both silent, surveying the store, realizing who they were to each other - no one yet. Just a customer and a sales woman. But now there was this potential.
'Well,' he said. Doreen was making her way to the counter with a bouquet of scented candles. 'I should get to the office. Traffic's a bit slow. They haven't cleared all the streets yet.'
'This was very nice,' she said. Now Doreen was standing behind him, peering over his shoulder, eyebrows raised. 'I really needed this coffee this morning. Thank you for thinking of me.'
He put his hat on and stood up straight, stretching his shoulders back without raising his arms. He laughed, nervously.
'And I really needed my credit card the other night. So the favour is returned.'
He said 'excuse me' to Doreen and left the store.
She couldn't stop the fantasies after that. She didn't even try. At night she abandoned her lists and imagined lying in bed with David, his knees curled and bent against the back of hers as they slept, his breath warm on her shoulder. She imagined his arms around her waist, his hands rubbing her stomach, her breasts, and then she kissing his fingers. Sometimes the shadow of his wife got in the way and Cathy felt a bit like a murderer making her disappear. Then she lay there, in bed, not sleeping, steeped instead in guilt, as though she had committed a crime with no one to apologize to.
The day before Christmas Eve, Cathy kept the store open until ten p.m., although people had stopped coming in by nine thirty. She let Sarah Jane go early because she could close up on her own and she wanted to do some tidying anyway. She was already planning her post-Christmas inventory days and considering ordering pizza for her staff who would be staying late. Or maybe she would make it herself with the bread machine she knew she was getting from Abby for Christmas. What a nice way to break it in.
Cathy hadn't yet locked the door and had just begun shutting off the lights, when the bell went, sounding much louder in the dark. She jumped and David, seeing her frightened, backed away from the doorway.
'I'm sorry,' he said. 'I hoped you were still open. I can come back tomorrow . . .'
Cathy caught her breath, her heart still pounding. 'It's cold out,' she managed. 'Come in and close the door.'
David stood by the door and looked around the store as though he had forgotten why he'd come. There was only one light on, like a spotlight, by the till. He stayed near the light, as though the rest of the store was off limits, until Cathy said, 'I haven't counted out yet, if you need anything.'
He cleared his throat. 'Yes,' he said, now remembering. 'Yes. I promised I would bring home some more of that cream. Edith likes it quite a lot, you know. When she was a girl, her grandfather grew rose bushes. So, I think the smell brings her good memories.'
He found the bottle in the dark and Cathy met him at the cash register. As she typed in the purchase, he spoke with the weighted, soft tone of intimacy.
'Have you ever lost someone you love?'
'Yes,' she replied, remaining professional to wrap the bottle in tissue paper and place it in the paper bag, adding the scented beads, tying everything with a ribbon.
'How did you move on?'
She handed him his purchase and his change.
'I had my daughter to look after. She needed a loving mother and so I spent my time loving her.'
He folded the top of the bag so it was closed more tightly. He stood staring at the counter, searching for his words.
'Edith's been offered a place in a home,' he said. 'It's not far, but if we're going to take it, we have to take it now because there are plenty of people who could have the spot.'
He stood before her, depleted and completely open.
'I don't know why I am telling you this. It's just very hard at home, alone. And I don't think I can do it any more.'
He didn't look up when he spoke. Cathy considered that he wasn't really speaking to her at all. She put her hand on his arm and said, 'You do take very good care of her.'
He put his hand on top of hers and rubbed it lightly. His palms were rough with age and winter. The skin around his nails was dry and peeling. He had faint freckles around his knuckles and one cluster looked like a star.
'I miss talking to her. I talk to her a lot but she hasn't the patience to sustain a conversation with me. That's what I miss the most.'
That won't come back, Cathy thought, but didn't say it. He sighed as if to say he knew and squeezed her hand before looking up and letting go.
'Right,' he said. 'It will be a busy weekend.'
She walked him to the door. 'You don't need to buy something to come by,' she said. 'And you don't need to bring me coffee either.'
This made him smile. He reached out his hand to rub her shoulder, but instead ran his thumb along her cheek and jawbone. Cathy didn't move. It was as if she felt the glove with every inch of her face. She smelled the buckskin leather, a bit moist from the snow. His hand was so big that the glove came close to her mouth and she could nearly taste it. His hand rested then at the base of her neck, his palm on her shoulder. She placed her hand on top of his, and after a moment he had to pull away, tightening his scarf, hesitating before heading back into the snow, and the cold.
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