Black Friday

"How much is that chair?" barked a plump lady with flaming red hair. Tie some ropes on her and she'd float by in a Thanksgiving Day parade. And to boot, her attire resembled that of Ronald McDonald himself. I'm convinced she's Ronald's overbearing wife. She's the real creator of the famous burger combos, not him. She's working on one called the McBarf as we speak. I name her Rhonda. I'm only an hour into my Black Friday compulsory stint in my father's furniture store, and I want to leave. I'd rather have my toes nailed to the floor than deal with Rhonda.

            Home for the holiday, my mother browbeat me into helping out with dad's big holiday sales event. You'd think by the age of twenty-five, I'd have the courage to tell her to shut it. But I don't. My husband egged her on, which made matters worse. He's spending the day laid back in dad's recliner sleeping off the leftovers he's consuming. I hate him right now.

            "...other colors it comes in?" I blink like a boulder is rolling around in my left eye socket. Rhonda's yammering again.

            "I'm sorry, what was that? What chair?" I stare at her, dazed and confused. Pretty sure I'm experiencing a turkey-come hangover, or I'm having an aneurysm. We're standing in an oasis of thirty ugly club chairs, recliners, and jumbo-wide's for the XXL slobs.

            Rhonda McDonald gets testy right away and says, "That chair." No pointing or description to assist me. I assume her reference is to a desk chair she's standing next to. You know what they say about assuming.

            "What chair? This desk chair?" Come on, Rhonda, give me a sign.

            "No! That big chair over there," Rhonda snaps. Kill me now. Please. Both eyes begin to twitch in unison. I picture my hand grabbing the back of her head and slamming it down on the desk to my right.

            "I bought a chair four years ago here, and I want to buy another one," she hisses. My upper lip begins to spasm in rhythm with my eyes at this point. I need an escape plan. I'll drop to the floor and force my entire body to convulse. That should make her scurry away in double-time.

            A short, pale, mid-fifties man taps my shoulder and scares the holy living crap out of me. I whirl around to discover his eyes are level with my boobs, and I'm looking down at his bald head and flattened nose. We both appear shocked. "Excuse me, can you help me with a mattress?" he asks.

            "I'm working with Rhon... um, this woman at the moment. I can meet you over there in a few minutes." Where are all dad's real salespeople? I'm the only one here on the showroom floor.

            "What mattress do you sleep on?" he asks. My gaze goes blurry. A white one? With silver stitching? How does dad deal with these people? They're morons.

            "I want to buy that big chair over there," huffs Rhonda.

            "What chair?" I ask, again. Rhonda's the round peg that's too fat for the square hole kinda thing in the human race. And today I'm the dim bulb in the knife drawer. Our paths never should have crossed.

            A young blonde mom with a gaggle of kids enters, jingling the bells above the door. She's carrying an infant in one arm and sipping a can of soda pop. A toddler is clinging to her leg. One of her kids runs to the mattress corner and turns one into a trampoline. While two others have disappeared into the furniture maze. "I'd like to buy a recliner for my husband for Christmas. What one's come in leather? Tommy! Get off that table!"

            "Does that big chair come in other fabrics? I'll need it by Christmas as well. Will I be able to get it by then? You aren't a very good sales lady," says Rhonda McDonald. Rhonda's number is up. That balloon will float no more.

            "Exactly what chair are you referring to?" I ask Rhonda.

            "For the tenth time, that chair! That big chair." So descriptive. She points in the general direction of four big club chairs. Somebody's going to die today, and her name is Rhonda. Black Friday is a suitable name.

            "Take me over to the precise chair, please." Kill them with kindness, dad always says.

            "Joey, stop jumping from mattress to mattress! If I have to come over there..."

            "It needs to be a good-sized leather recliner, not too brown, more cognac-colored. TOMMY! Get off that dining table!" I name this mom Frazzle-Pop.

            "Do you stock your mattresses? I have company coming for Christmas, and I want a comfortable mattress. Not too comfy though, I don't want them staying longer than necessary," says the pasty short dude.

            "I'm pretty sure those recliners come in any of those leather swatches over there," I say to Frazzle-Pop. I point to six of the ugliest recliners on the face of the earth. I'll bet the people who designed them were playing a drinking game. They dared each other to create the most hideous chairs possible. Winners, each of you.

            "I'll have to check with management on the mattress stocking. We used to, but I don't know anymore."

            "I need a full-size mattress, so be a dear and check on that. Do you offer financing?" Pasty face needs a name. His beady blue eyes are eerie, and he's creeping me out. Lord Voldemort suits him to a tee.

            Rhonda and Frazzle-Pop are trying out chairs as two new couples waltz in, signaled by the bells. I hated those bells as a young kid. I hated meeting new people. Dad made me store "greeter," hoping it would help my shyness. It didn't. I still hate meeting new people.

            "TOMMY!"

            "Hello, we'd like to look at some new dining table sets. Is everything on sale?" Couple number one's wife wants to look at new sets. Good, because we don't sell old ones. Stupid thing to say, lady. Nothing but fluffer-nutter in this one.

            "Excuse me, you look a bit busy, but my wife and I are in the market for a new sofa." This from couple number two. Busy? Me? For some reason unknown to mankind, I'm the sole salesperson in dad's showroom today. Gracious of him to let everyone else have the damn day off. Let's hold a big freaking sales event and force your daughter to work for free no less.

            Rhonda McDonald is waving her hands at me. She should be directing road traffic. Or airplanes around those Golden Arches. "Will this fabric pill? I don't want it if it's going to pill." Pill? I could use a couple of pills right about now. What time is it anyway? I glance at my watch. It's eleven-twenty. Time for tequila shots with or without pills.

            "Am I boring you? I have never been treated so poorly," says Rhonda. Dad needs a bouncer. Rhonda needs to get tossed out on her round backside.

            We opened at ten, and I'm here until seven. An hour and forty minutes until lunch. I'll eat, then tell dad I have food poisoning and have to leave. Blame it on mom's cooking, convince him the turkey was somewhat undercooked. I'll add in some gagging sounds for realism. Oh, ...crap. A fleeting image of my container of leftovers sitting in mom's fridge flashes before my eyes. I'm going to the ladies' room to write "loser" in permanent marker on my forehead. Knowing my luck, I'd write it backward, and it would say RESOL. Like a shoe that needs a retread.

            "I'm not sure if that will pill or not. It's 100 percent polyester, but it has a very low double rub rating, which means it's not very strong. Is there another fabric you like?" My patience is gone with Rhonda.

            "I've selected a mattress. Did you get an answer on stock? Here's the tag from the floor model. I've ripped it off to make it easier for you to check." Wow. Thanks, Lord Voldemort. I'll be reattaching that later.

            "TOMMY! This is the LAST time! I like this leather, it's pretty roughed up looking already, it's perfect. I found it by that other recliner over there. Can I put it on this recliner here?" The toddler, still clinging to her leg, wipes its runny nose on her pants. Frazzle-Pop alone has demonstrated why my loins will never spawn a living thing. Ever.

            The door's bells toll again. It's a death knell to my soul. Black Friday, black plague, who cares. Is it seven yet? How did dad do this for all these years?

            "How about this one, will this fabric pill? I liked the other one better, but I guess it will have to do since you aren't helping me," complains Rhonda. I should pay more attention to WWE when my husband watches it. Rhonda needs a chokeslam followed by a supreme piledriver, but I don't know how to do either maneuver. I've added WWE tickets to my mental bucket list.

            My peripheral vision spies a family of five, a young couple, and a couple of frat-boys enter the store. And someone I know, my husband, walking towards me with a bag in his hand. Surprising. I thought his rear-end and dad's recliner would be a bonded unit at this point.

            "Ma'am, how many leaves does this dining table come with? And I'm guessing I can order extra chairs, right? Do you know if it comes in any other finishes? I don't care for the one its shown in." The wife of couple number one is wearing way too much perfume. It's burning my eyes. Her husband opens his mouth to speak, and I get a waft of his dumpster-breath. Pretty sure I vurped in my mouth.

            "I have a question about the delivery timeframe. If we order today, will it arrive before Christmas?" he asks. Couple number one is buzzing around me like a swarm of gnats. They're tag-teaming me, I can't escape. I need to spray them with Deep Woods Off and air freshener and run.

            "TOMMY! Get over here before I come get you!"

            "Hey, babe. Your mom found your leftovers in the fridge while she was making us some turkey sandwiches for lunch." So, my mom is waiting on you hand and foot? Perfect, icing on the cake.

            "Thanks," I say.

            "Where's your dad?"

            "I have no clue. In the office maybe?"

            "Okay. I'll pop in and say hi."

            You do that. I'll stay out here and wait on the entire cast of The Hunger Games by myself.

            The frat-boys want a recliner for their dad for Christmas. Rhonda is on my last nerve, and Frazzle-Pop needs her tubes tied. Couple number one decides to buy the dining table that Tommy has been on the entire time. If it's strong enough for him, it's good enough for them. And they like the finish better than the other table. Lord Voldemort is tapping his shoe in annoyance. And couple number two has picked out no less than 1,000 fabric swatches for the sofa they like. I'm not sure what the other people want yet, and I could care less.

            The bells chime again, and at least nine or sixty-two people come in. I'm going to tie on a blindfold and go out and play in traffic.

            "This is the fabric I want. The label says it's a cotton blend, and the pattern is perfect. Let's write it up. I've been in here for over three hours," whines Rhonda. No Rhonda, you haven't. It's eleven fifty-four, and you wobbled in a few minutes after eleven. I'm never eating McDonald's again.

            "Great. Let's head to the computer and write it up," I say. You want fries with that order? Cannot get your balloon-butt out of here fast enough.

            Lord Voldemort follows us, he looks like he's ready to order too. I buzz dad and ask him about mattress stock. Yes, we still stock them. Thank the heavens above. Dad has the patience of a saint I've decided. It has to be from years and years of practice.

            My husband gave me a quick wave on his way out, but he got accosted by the frat-boys before he reached the door. I sneer at him, paybacks buddy. He shows them the ugly recliners and starts demonstrating how they work. All his practice put to good use finally. Now the three of them are laughing and high-fiving. I hate him.

            Frazzle-Pop and four of her marauders wander over with a leather swatch. "Okay, we want this leather on that recliner. Can you tell me how much that will cost, and is it guaranteed by Christmas? 'Cause if not I'll have to shop somewh... TOMMY!" I hate the name Tommy.

            "Yes, you can use it on that recliner, and yes, you'll get it before Christmas." I've lied through my smile, and I'll be going to hell, and I don't give a crap.

            "I've been shopping here for over fifteen years, and this experience today has been the worst by far. If the owner was alive, he'd be appalled, young lady. That poor man's rolling over in his grave." I stare at Rhonda, wipe away a fake tear, and hand her the receipt. Sorry to disappoint you, Rhonda, but dad hasn't met his demise yet. Lord Voldemort and Frazzle-Pop are up next.

            The frat-boys picked the puffiest ugliest recliner in the store, thanks to my husband. And the family of five picked out a sectional with little to no help from me. The young couple is arguing over a bedroom set, and couple number two is down to four fabric options. The bells jingle again. I need a gallon of spiked eggnog, or a hot poker stuck in my eye.

            By seven o'clock, I'd had enough. I sold eight recliners, six sofas, five mattresses, four dining sets, three bedroom sets, two sectionals, and a partridge in a pear tree. My feet ache, and I'm pretty sure somebody walked out with my blazer. And I'm never having kids, and I'm never helping out on Black Friday again.

* * *

            "Thanks for working today, kiddo. It was a great day! You did an outstanding job. Here, this is for you," said dad, as he handed me a check. "And, FYI, you passed the test."

            "What's this for, dad? And what test?"

            "It's your commission on your sales. I was testing you to see what you're capable of."

            "Dad, you don't have to pay me. I don't mind helping out. And it was super crazy busy, but I managed." He knows when I'm lying. I look down at the check, and my jaw dropped to the floor. "Dad, oh my God, this is too much. It's thousands of dollars."

            "You earned every penny of it kiddo. Oh, and this paperwork is for you too. Let's sit down for a minute so you can look it over."

            I take the folder he hands me, and I glance through the stapled bundle. Wait, what?

            "Dad, I don't understand. What's this all about?"

            "I'm retiring next year, and I'm giving you the store. Merry Christmas, kiddo."

            Overwhelmed and shocked, I blink back the tears that had formed unbeknownst to me. I looked at dad, and he smiled. I guess this store does mean more to me than I ever thought.

            "You can handle anyone who comes in to shop. You proved that today. It's not easy, but it grows on you. I've made an excellent living with this store. I've banked seven figures, and its time to pass on the torch."

            "Dad, I don't know what to say. Thank you?"

            I begin to absorb the day's events. Rhonda, Lord Voldemort, and Frazzle-Pop. Dumpster-breath guy, and all the other folks that came in. Some were easy and pleasant, others, well, not so much. And my husband did help sell the frat-boys an atrocious recliner. Could I quit my job and do this? I could. We live close enough so we wouldn't have to move. We could make this work. But do I want to do this? Yes, I do.

            "Okay, dad, it's a deal. But I'm going to have to make a few changes. First, I'm throwing those stupid bells out. And second, we're all pitching in next year on Black Friday!"

            "And dad, I'm considering hiring a bouncer with WWE experience."