Service with a smile? In the Gutter, that's just another day at the office. Where every cup of coffee comes with a Killer Smile.
Take a number. Get in line. Who says customer service is dead?
Take a number. Get in line. Who says customer service is dead?
How May I Help You? by Todd Morr
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“How may I help you?”
She sounded like she meant it, and
her brown eyes appeared to be sincere even though they seemed a little dull,
perhaps that was because her nametag did not have doctor in front of the name
and her smock was covered in the logo of a convenience store chain. Either way
I had to ask; unlike the average asshole walking through those glass doors I
really needed it.
“Do you mean that?” I said.
“Mean what?”
I began to think my assessment of
her intelligence was not based on preconceived notions about clerks working the
morning shift.
“That you want to help me,” I said.
“Of course, that’s what I’m here
for. Tell me what you need.”
I paused; her face told me she
thought I was about to ask for something obscene. My reaching for the edge of
my jacket did not help. For the sake of speed it was better to show first, then
tell; time was one of the many things I did not have this morning.
The look on her face confirmed the
hole in my shoulder had gotten worse. I did not have to look; with every step I
could feel it widen. I swear I could hear it tear like someone ripping a T-shirt
in two. The blood seemed to have slowed from a gush to a trickle. This was not
good news, since it likely had more to do with my blood running out as opposed
to my wound healing.
“What happened? That is a lot of
blood.”
“Some asshole shot me.”
“Why?”
“Because maybe I’m an asshole too.”
“I don’t know how I can help you
with that.”
“You probably can’t; that is not
what I want help with anyway.”
“I could call an ambulance.”
“I could do that myself. I need a
place to hide.”
“I think you need the ambulance
more.”
“As long as the gun that shot me has
more bullets I need to hide first.”
She bit her lip. I wanted to tell her
to hurry but held my tongue. She pointed to the opposite corner of the little
store. I looked back and did not see anything but neat rows of alcoholic
beverages in aluminum cans behind a glass door.
“The cooler, it loads from the back.
The door is back there in the corner,” she told me, and this time I saw it.
“Thank you,” I said as I headed for
the door. After she pointed it out the door seemed to flash like a beacon. I
was not moving very fast; losing all that blood had made me weak and the
adrenalin burst spawned by being shot at seemed to have gone dry. I tried to
remind whatever part of my body that produced the adrenalin we were still in
danger, but like just about everybody, except maybe a dim clerk, it was not
listening to me today.
I still made it, closing the door behind
me as I heard the chime. The same chime that rang when I decided to seek
sanctuary in this glorified liquor store. My teeth started to chatter and my
body shook. I told myself this was because I was hiding in a refrigerator and
had nothing to do with the .45 slug that had gone through my shoulder. For the
second time today, I was not a very convincing liar.
McGreezy had a big voice that
sounded like somewhere in his rolls of hard fat was a quality old school reverb
tank. I could hear it clearly even behind this insulated door.
“How ya doing?” he asked the clerk.
“Fine. How about you?” she replied,
any nervousness not apparent in her voice.
“I’ve been better,” McGreezy told
her, and for just a moment I felt like I might have a life span beyond noon. He
sounded tired and frustrated; I hoped it meant he’d come in just to buy a pack
of smokes. Maybe he would pick up a
bottle of something and work on tracking me down later.
“Do you know you’ve got blood on
your floor?” McGreezy added.
“No.”
I couldn’t see him, but I was pretty
sure he was pointing out my bright and sticky blood on the freshly mopped, white
tile floor. I did not feel so hopeful anymore.
“How may I help you?” she asked.
“You really mean that?”
“Of course, that’s what I’m here
for,” she replied sounding like she meant it.
It got real quiet for a moment, then
the next thing I heard was McGreezy’s big, booming voice.
“Grab me a pack Winston’s,” he said.
“Take your time, I’m going to grab something from the cooler.”
I risked a glance between the bottles
of malt liquor, trying to convince myself he was just thirsty, and that there
was another reason for him reaching into his jacket besides drawing the big
blue revolver.
