Chapter 5
CHAPTER 5
DANNY
When I walk into the house, I don’t even bother trying to be quiet. I’m respectful that it’s almost 11:00 p.m., but the garage door is loud, and I know my dad is still awake, waiting to make sure his car is in one piece. Like I’ve ever given him cause to worry about something happening to it. I’m not a reckless driver. I swear he’s also waiting to catch me sneaking home after hooking up. Well, Dad, here’s your chance.
I open the door from the basement and step into the dark kitchen. Light pours in from the living room, so I take a deep breath and go in. “Hey, Dad.”
“You’re late. Again.”
I shrug out of my coat and hang it in the closet. “Not really. It’s only just after 11:00.”
“The game ended just after 10:00.”
Suddenly, I’m so tired of this thing we do every time . “Dad, I’m a grown man. I have a job. I’m old enough to vote and drink. I’m not a teenager anymore. So stop treating me like one.”
“If you’re such a grown man, why are you still living under my roof? Move out and get your own place. Then you can decide when your curfew is. Until then, you follow my rules.”
Heat rushes up my chest and neck, and I clench my fists at my sides to keep from screaming. “I’m trying to save up to do exactly that, Dad. But it costs money to furnish an apartment. And buy a car. Even a used one.” I’d had a part-time job in college, but all of that money went to help pay for school. “I promise you, I’m trying.”
He grunts and pushes to his feet. “You’d think with your fancy degree, you’d have a job that pays better. I never went to college. Right out of high school, I started making enough money to support me and your mum. But being a plumber like your old man wasn’t good enough for you.” Even if I wanted to argue, which I don’t, he doesn’t let me get a word in. “You had to have your fancy degree. Well, you have it. But you’re still living at home. You should be married with a kid or two by now. At your age, your mum and I had you, with your sister on the way.”
“Dad, you know that’s never going to happen.”
He holds up a hand. “I don’t want to hear about it. No son of mine is gay. You’re gonna find a nice girl and get married and have kids. That’s what we expect you to do.”
“Maybe I have found someone.” His eyebrows shoot up in disbelief. I don’t know where the words come from, but they pour out of my mouth. “Only it’s not a girl, Dad. And he never will be.”
“Shut up!” He takes a step towards me, though I don’t think he intends anything but intimidation. “You’re not a queer!”
And I’m done. I don’t know how, but I have to find a way to move out. I can’t keep doing this to myself. Or to him. I hate that he doesn’t accept me, but he’s still my dad. And he’s right that this is his house. “Whatever you say, Dad. Here.” I hand him his car keys. “Thanks for lending me the car.”
My mom appears at the bottom of the stairs, her eyes full of sympathy, but she hurries into the living room and tries to calm my dad. I race to my room and strip down to my boxers before slipping down the hall to the bathroom to brush my teeth. When I’m done, I turn off the light and peek into the hallway. The door to my parents’ room is shut, and I take a deep breath, exhaling slowly, then speed walk to my room. Once I’m under the covers, lying on my back, I stare into the darkness, heartsick that what had been an amazing evening has turned into complete trash. God, I’m so tired of this loop I’m in. Why didn’t I go with Chris when he offered? And now I have no way to get out to California on my own, unless I want to leave what few possessions I have and get on a plane with whatever I can fit in a suitcase and a backpack. I roll onto my side and close my eyes, wishing I was back at Mike’s, wrapped in his arms, far away from here.
So far, Monday morning isn't going very well. I woke up late after a restless night of very little sleep and had to rush through my morning routine so I could get out the door somewhat on time, but I still almost missed my bus. When I got to work, I discovered the team from the weekend hadn’t cleaned out the coffee pot, and after cleaning it myself, I realized we were out of regular coffee. And on top of feeling frazzled, rushed, and uncaffeinated, yesterday’s sales figures were awful. Which means my boss is going to be miserable today, and I probably won’t be able to sneak out and grab a coffee from the food court once we open.
It’s at this point that the overhead lights come on, and I unlock the outside doors. Someone else is responsible for getting the gate to the mall open, thank god. I weave my way through the departments to the next set of outside doors without tripping over clothing racks or displays in the aisles. With how my morning’s going, I’d probably end up bleeding all over something if I did. Not that anyone would immediately notice the blood, since everything in the store is currently a riot of red, white and pink, in celebration of the upcoming Valentine’s holiday. Not even Housewares is spared. There are stacks of pink and white towels, little displays of pink and red heart-shaped soaps, red satin robes borrowed from Lingerie, and a table setting display with red placemats, white linen napkins, and red napkin rings with little pink hearts. It’s like Saint Valentine threw up all over the store. I’m all for celebrating holidays, but even for retail, this is a bit much.
Customers are already waiting to be let in when I unlock the second set of doors. Without even a good morning, they shove past me, ignoring that I’m wrestling with one of the still-locked doors. God, who knew retail would be a contact sport? With this being a holiday week, no doubt we’ll be busy with shoppers looking for the perfect outfit or scrambling for that last-minute gift for the valentine they forgot. I make a mental note to avoid Cosmetics for the next six days. There will be far too many battling scents at the perfume counter, and I don’t need that headache.
Rounding the corner into Luggage, I head to the storeroom where my office is. Before I can get there, one of my sales associates stops me. “Mr. Sullivan.”
I turn around, my work smile firmly in place. “Hey Lori.”
“I’m sorry to bother you, but it’s starting early today. I have a woman trying to return a white sweater with a huge coffee stain on the front. She says she bought it that way.”
I roll my eyes and remind myself I love people. Helping to pick out the perfect gift or find the exact item to accent their new home is satisfying. But retail is making me seriously question my stance. Keeping my smile firmly in place, I gesture for Lori to lead on, following her to the cash wrap. Before I can even say hello, a middle-aged woman with gray-streaked brown hair and frown lines deeper than the Grand Canyon shoves a white knit sweater at me. “I got this home and pulled it out of the bag, and it had a huge stain across the front. I can’t believe you sell things like this to people. Do you think I’m going to pay for something that someone else stained?”
Biting my tongue, I hold the sweater out in front of me, then lay it across the checkout counter. Sure enough, there’s a huge, dark brown splotch down the front of the garment. “Ma’am?—”
“Don’t ma’am me. I bought it that way. And I paid full retail.”
Sighing, I smile at her and somehow manage to keep a reasonable tone. “Ma’am, I’m sure you can understand that this isn’t a small stain, and surely someone here would have noticed it when ringing you up. We would have been mortified to sell you something in this condition.”
The woman stabs her finger at Lori. “She said I can’t return it, but I’m not paying for this. I’ll call your corporate office.”
I don’t point out that she already did pay for it. “Ma’am, our store would never allow one of our customers to purchase something that wasn’t in one hundred percent excellent condition, unless marked as such. In which case, we’d never sell it at full retail.” I glance down at the receipt next to the stained sweater. “It looks like you purchased this on Friday evening.” Which means she most likely wore it out over the weekend, spilled coffee or something equally staining down the front, and decided that she’d bring it back today. “I’m truly sorry, but there’s no way we can process this return.”
Her face turns redder than our holiday decorations, and she sputters. “I demand to see the manager.”
“I’m sorry ma’am. I am the manager, and we really can’t return this.”
She pulls up to her full height, which can’t be more than five feet tall, and puts her hand on her hip. “I want to see your boss.”
Oh Christ on a cross. First customer of the day, and we’re already getting Mr. Brown involved in customer transactions. Keeping a fake smile in my voice as well as on my face, I nod. “Absolutely. Please wait here.
Turning quickly, I walk back to my office and pick up the phone, dialing my boss’s line.
“Yes?"
I pinch the bridge of my nose and wonder why I picked retail management, of all possible jobs. “Good morning, Mr. Brown. I have a customer here demanding to see my boss. She’s trying to return a white sweater with a huge coffee stain down the front. She insists we sold it to her that way.”
There’s a long pause on the other end and then a huge sigh. “The Misses department?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll be right down.”
I hang up and go back to the sales floor. As I approach the counter, I can hear the woman berating Lori. “...and you better return my money, or I’m telling everyone I know never to shop here.”
I cut off any more of her tirade. “Ma’am, my boss is on his way. If you’ll please step aside so we can ring up other customers, we’d appreciate it.”
“I’m not giving up my place in line.”
I don’t even attempt a smile. There’s no way it’d be believable. “Of course. We’re just allowing other customers to pay and move on to the rest of their day while we wait for Mr. Brown.” Thankfully, I see him walking our way from the other side of the store. Lori takes over at the register, and I gently guide the irate customer away from the desk.
Mr. Brown steps up and smiles at the customer. “Hello, I’m Steve Brown. How can I help you?”
She shoves the sweater at him. “You can give me back my money. I got this home and found a huge stain down the front.”
Mr. Brown holds up the garment, assessing the stain. “Of course, ma’am.” He hands the sweater to me. “Please refund our customer’s purchase.” He turns back to her. “I’m so sorry for any inconvenience. We’ll absolutely take care of this for you, and I’m so sorry this happened. We pride ourselves on selling the finest merchandise and would never knowingly sell something like this to you. Please accept our apologies.”
“I want the cash.”
He looks at me. “In cash.”
I stand there, dumbstruck, knowing that she paid with a credit card, and watch him turn and walk back toward his office. The customer practically coos after him. “What a nice man. See, that’s how customer service is supposed to be handled. You should learn from him.”
I silently take the sweater and receipt over to the register, and when Lori is finished ringing up her customer, I step in and issue the refund to the woman. I can’t even bring myself to wish her a nice day because I’m busy hoping she trips off the curb when she leaves. Then again, with my luck, she’d sue the store, and somehow that would be my fault.
Once she leaves the department, Lori turns to me, clearly as shocked as I feel. “There’s no way we sold it like that. He just let that woman get away with borrowing and ruining an outfit.”
I nod. “Yeah. And don’t forget the cash advance he gave her against her Horne’s credit card. I don’t get it.”
Growling, she storms over to a table of once pristinely folded sweatshirts and begins refolding and stacking them, muttering angrily under her breath. I can’t tell what she’s saying, but I’m pretty sure I agree with whatever it is. Even more stressed than when I got to work, I return to my office. Before I can sit down, my pager goes off. The message is Mr. Brown’s extension. I pick up the phone and dial. “It’s Danny, Mr. Brown.”
“Dan, I need you to work tomorrow night instead of the day shift. Tom called off sick, and we can cover his Wednesday shift if he’s still not feeling well, but we need another person on tomorrow’s night shift.”
“Sir—”
“Show me you’re a team player, Dan. The Senior Merchandiser position is still open since Lee is about to go on maternity leave. I know you want it, so show me you deserve it.”
“Yes, sir.” I hang up and drop into my chair, reminding myself that I need this job. It’s my only way to get the life I want. Well, the only legal way. And the Senior Merchandiser position pays more. Enough to speed up my timeline for getting a car and moving out. I have to get it. So I guess I’m working tomorrow night. The phone rings, and I stare at it like it’s a snake about to strike. With a growing sense of dread, I pick up the receiver. “Hello?”
“Danny, it’s Lori.” Her voice is shaking, and my stomach drops.
“What’s wrong? Is it another problem customer?”
“Worse.” Worse? What could be worse?
She gags into the phone, and I push to my feet, ready to head to the floor as soon as we hang up. “Are you sick?”
“Not yet.” She gags again and utters words I never thought I’d hear. “Someone crapped in the women’s fitting room.”
Jesus Christ. They do not pay me enough to do this job.