You Never Know What's Going to Come Through the Door

r Know What’s Going to Come Through the Door

  By

  Fred Schaefer

  Formatting by Katrina Joyner; cover art by Tatiana Villa.

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  You Never Know What’s Going to Come Through the Door

  The store was dead, daylight had long faded, and it was still an hour until closing. A cold rain had been falling since mid afternoon, further depressing Margaret Purcell’s mood. She hadn’t a sale in over three hours and all the new stock had been long put away, so all Margaret had to do was walk the floor in the Men’s Department and glance at her watch every three minutes. For about a half hour, she had tried to unfold and then refold a table full of Izod knit shirts, but gave up out of sheer boredom.

  From across the store came the echo of laughter, which meant the other sales associates were gathering at the register in the Women’s Sportswear. Margaret gave no thought to joining them, knowing instinctively that a woman old enough to be their grandmother would not be welcome in a discussion of boyfriends. All she had to talk about was her Harry, right now asleep in front of the TV, waiting for her to get home and wake him up so he could go to bed and fall back to sleep just as soon as his head hit the pillow.

  Thinking about Harry made her want a cigarette. One of the benefits of working in Men’s was its very close proximity to the public restrooms; all Margaret had to do was slip away for a minute, light up in a stall and kill some time. She was just about to retrieve her hidden pack of Marlboro Lights from under the register when she heard the whoosh of the front doors opening. A customer, and the possibility of a sale, to save the evening from being a complete loss, she hoped. However, this small hope was dashed when she looked up and saw Mike Rose sauntering over to a table of Ralph Lauren shirts. Mike was a regular, but not a paying, customer. He was a master of the five-finger discount and not being caught. Mike’s modus operandi was to secret an article of clothing, retreat to the restroom, put it on underneath his street apparel and just walk out the door, usually leaving the price tag on the floor as a calling card.

  Not tonight, you fat ass son of bitch, Margaret thought. You can’t steal it if you can’t hide it and you can’t hide it if I stand here and watch you every damn minute. At least this was better than being bored.

  Walking over to the opposite side of the Ralph Lauren table she said, “Can I help you with anything?” in her best customer friendly voice.

  “Nah, just looking,” was Mike’s muttered reply.

  “Please let me know if I can be of any assistance,” Margaret replied pleasantly, then folded her arms and stood her ground. He ignored her for a few minutes then moved over to a table of jeans, she followed, receiving an angry glare for her efforts. I have got until closing to ride your ass and I’ll enjoy every minute of it.

  Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw him. It was another customer who somehow had slipped past her unseen and was all the way across the Men’s department, browsing a rack of jackets. He appeared to be a young man and her first thought pegged him as Mike’s accessory, there to distract her while he helped himself to merchandise, but as she approached this new arrival, Margaret forgot all about that notion. No crony of Mike Rose would wear a coat and tie on any day of the week, much less on a Monday night.

  “Can I help you find anything?” She spoke this same sentence a dozen times each day and took pride that she made it sound fresh for every new shopper.

  As she spoke, he turned to meet her and Margaret did a double take, for standing there in the middle of the Men’s Department of Wilk Brothers clothing store was Ricky Nelson, looking as though he had just stepped out of an old black and white TV. It was as if decades had fallen away and she was a little girl again, sitting in front of the television on Wednesday nights. Only Ricky had never worn sunglasses on his show, unlike his reincarnation here and now.

  “You most certainly can help me,” he said, and her nostalgic moment came to an abrupt end. Ricky had never spoken with an accent that was pure Deep South like this boy. She also noticed for the first time how deathly pale his skin appeared to be and apprehension crawled ever so gently up her back. “I’m checking to see if you stock a coat just like this one,” he continued in that drawl with a gesture indicating the outer garment he was wearing. “Looks like I’m in the market for a new one. I’ve worn a 38 regular since the year I turned fifteen.” It was a dark blue sport coat, retro back to the early 60’s. Right below the left lapel was a large stain. To Margaret’s eyes, it looked as though it had been made by wine, but the kid seemed too young to be drinking, but in this day and age, she silently told herself, it didn’t mean anything.

  She knew a half dozen ways to get that kind of spot out, but remained silent; a sale was a sale. “I never try and disappoint a customer if I can help it,” Margaret said and pointed to a rack at the end of the row. “What you want is right over here.”

  The rack was a four-way filled with a mixture of stripes and solid colors and when the young man saw them, he turned toward her and said, “I meant what I said, there had better be one in there just like the one I’ve got on now.” That’s when she glimpsed them, if only for a second: two razor sharp incisors, as wicked looking as those belonging to her neighbor’s Doberman. She suddenly doubted very much if the stain had been made by wine.

  “It’s very important to me,” he continued, “to replace the one I got with something exactly like it. It doesn’t matter if it’s long out of style; don’t want to hear that crap and I refuse to lower myself to rummaging through boxes at Goodwill. Soiled throw outs and frayed cuffs just won’t cut it and you can’t find anybody who can make these things from hand anymore. So, Margaret,” he said, after leaning in to get a look at her name tag, “do you think you can find anything on your racks that can satisfy me?” He gave her a slight smile and again revealed those pointed teeth.

  For a moment, she considered screaming and running for the door; anything to get away from this monster, for that is what she knew he was despite a passing resemblance to a long dead teen idol. But if it was true, then it was doubtful she would make it halfway to the front before he would be on her and there would be another stain on that jacket. Then decades of customer service took over. “I’m sure I can find you something you’ll like,” she said, careful not to betray any hint that he was not just another customer.

  “I don’t want just anything you think I might like, Margaret. I want a dark blue sport coat just like the one I’m wearing,” The threat was in the words, of that she was sure.

  “Of course you do.” With all the effort she could muster, Margaret managed a smile. From very far away came a familiar giggle, Why couldn’t one of those little snips have worked Men’s and had the good fortune to be stuck with the customer who really might just be from hell. The rack was jammed with coats; each arm filled to capacity. At first glance, it looked as though at least six different versions of blue were in stock, quite a selection, but none a perfect match. Margaret felt sweat bead up on her scalp as she began to sift through the rack, praying to find the right color that would somehow please this creature.

  “The first one of these I ever owned was made by Howlin & Stritch, they were a men’s clothing m
anufacturer with a plant just outside of Boston,” he said as he stood behind her.

  “I’m sorry but we don’t stock that vendor,” Margaret replied, the name was unfamiliar to her.

  “I’m sure you don’t, seeing how they went bankrupt in 1969. I managed to snag one of the last originals form a clearance rack in a Wilk Brothers store just before Christmas that year.”

  “How fortunate for you,” she answered.

  “It cost me five dollars and ninety-nine cents, that first one I mean,” he continued, “earned the money to pay for it pumping gas at an Esso station after school.”

  “Esso? Haven’t heard that name in a very long time,” she said as she finished sifting through one arm of the four-way rack without any luck. For a brief moment, all the colors ran together-blue, white, green and gray-into a hideous rainbow.

  “They call it Exxon now,” the young man said. “Except for up in Canada, where it’s still called Esso, the way it should have stayed.”

  “I believe there was a merger, the new name is ExxonMobil.” She didn’t dare turn around or acknowledge that he was recalling things he did not appear old enough to have experienced firsthand. She just kept looking for what he