By Hank Trisler Barbara's birthday came in May, as it often does. It became incumbent on me, as a dutiful husband, to get her a gift. I've tried kitchen appliances, garden tools, automobile accessories, gift certificates and cash, all with equal lack of beneficial result. She wanted a real gift, lovingly purchased by me.
I HATE to shop. I abhor shopping the way people who like to shop abhor good sense. I'd rather receive a good, swift kick to the cojones than enter a department store. Realizing this, Barbara told me about a robe she coveted at Nordstrom's, including a description, color and size. She figured that if I could just go in and pick something up, I'd be more likely to do it. She was right.
I'd heard good things about Nordstrom's and their outstanding level of customer service, so the task was anticipated with a level of terror lower than usual.
After parking about four miles away from Nordstrom's, to avoid door dings, I found myself at the foot of the escalator, staring at a directory and breathing heavily through my mouth. Nowhere on the directory did it say anything about robes.
"May I help you find something?" a low, soft voice came from over my right shoulder. I turned to see a gorgeous brunette in her mid-thirties, wearing a well-cut gray business suit and holding a small Nordstrom's shopping bag. She was smiling broadly, but not threateningly. She seemed to really want to help me.
I noticed her words were carefully chosen. She did not say, "May I help you?" (Or "Melp ya?" as said by the pre-pubescents at fast-food kiosks.) That's far too general and has become meaningless through overuse. She asked, specifically, "May I help you find something." I clearly needed help and looked lost.
"Yes, please," I gratefully responded, "I'm trying to find a large white robe for my large white wife."
"You'll find our robes in lingerie at the top of the escalator and to the left," she flashed another dazzling smile.
As I rode the escalator to the second floor, I saw her go down an aisle, curtsey gracefully, pick up a piece of paper and put it in her shopping bag. I thought she must be the store manager. The rank and file certainly doesn't pick up trash.
The lingerie department was mobbed with matrons who clearly knew what they were about. They had shopping bags looped over their forearms and yanked garments purposefully off racks and dumped them on the sale station. Clerks furiously processed plastic and threw unmentionables into bags and boxes. Out-thrust elbows threatened to impale any male so foolish as to encroach on their domain. I lurked by a rack of robes and stared, wide-eyed, looking for all the world like a jack-lighted deer.
My savior of just a few minutes before emerged from the top of the escalator and stepped briskly toward two young clerks huddled at the far side of lingerie, obviously plotting the emasculation of wayward, fat old men. She spoke to one of them, and briefly glanced in my direction. The girl absolutely flew toward me; end-running the crowd at the sales station and stiff-arming a huge woman holding her arm up to stop her.
"You look like you could use some help," she said, smilingly.
I told her about my robe requirements and she expertly pulled the right one from a rack packed so as to deter any man from finding the right one.
I asked her who the striking young woman was who had just spoken to her.
"That's Laura. She's our divisional manager and a very high muckety muck in the corporation," she explained. "We all just love her. She asked me to take special care of you."
Mystery solved. I knew she must be a highly placed executive, but didn't realize she was the right hand to the Nordstrom god.
Was asking someone to take special care of me impressive? You can bet your credit card. I had never even been in a Nordstrom's before, but I'll go back. You win big points by helping strangers in strange lands.
And they weren't done with me yet. "Would you like me to put that in a box for you?" the young woman asked.
"Would you do that for me?" I asked, disbelieving.
"Just wait right here," she said and disappeared behind some curtains.
A few minutes later she emerged with a beautifully gift-wrapped box. I detest wrapping packages only slightly less than shopping, so I was clearly delighted. "Thank you, thank you, thank you," I babbled.
"I was happy to do it for you," she said, simply.
Now there's some power for you. I'd have probably said something like, "Aw hell, that's all right," or "Twarn't nuthin," or "It's all a part of our service" and any of those things would have been okay. But by saying "I was happy to do it for you," she made me feel special, treasured, valued. Her training had been excellent and she was applying it beautifully.
Joel Weldon, a friend of mine says, "Elephants don't bite, it's the little things that get you." Maybe picking up trash isn't the best use of a division manager's time, but I know of no better way to set an example and pick up information at the same time.
In the increasingly impersonal world we live in, the little things will segregate the exceptional from the also-ran.
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