never met Mr. Simmons. Maybe Mrs. Simmons dressed him.
However, public relations and maintaining a good mall image being important parts of my job, I had to at least be pleasant to this particular Dick, who'd just promoted me. I'd gone straight from working for him to shopping centre owner.
“Besides, he's got no right to throw me out. This is public property. I know my rights. He can't…”
I held up both hands to stop the flow. It worked, but who knew for how long? I'd better make this good, and I'd better make it fast.
“First of all, Mr. Simmons, let me say that I regret that you're upset. I regret it more than you know.
“We want our customers to enjoy their shopping at Rosewood City Centre. And, although we're the only major shopping mall in this area, we never take things for granted. Our policy is to ensure a pleasant, climate-controlled environment to serve the public, and we take whatever measures necessary to implement that policy. Let me tell you just a few of them.”
I was on a roll now. Time to trot out the three Bs. Bullshit Baffles Brains.
“We have a $1.2 million annual budget devoted solely to advertising and promoting the centre, its 214 retail merchants, restaurants and service businesses. That's a dollar per square foot, Mr. Simmons. A healthy sum. There is an administrative staff of five people, including myself; two on-site stationary engineers; a daily maintenance staff plus a night cleaning crew. In addition, the shopping centre has a full complement of security officers headed by an ex-policewoman.”
He opened his mouth to start again, but I kept going.
“We also have an Information Booth on the lower level, staffed by three fully-trained people to help you find your way around the building and answer any inquiries you may have. I'm sure you went to there to find out where I could be located.”
And just wait till I get down there, I added to myself.
“All of this, Mr. Simmons, to make sure you are a satisfied customer. Apparently, today at least, you're not.”
“Damned right, I'm not. And, anyway, I don't give a monkey's fart about any of that.” He was shouting now, and his stabbing finger changed to a pointer aimed directly at my face.
My foot was moving faster and faster. Where the hell was that knitting bag? And why wasn't Security answering?
“And I don't want any of this business of you goddam Scots sticking together. Just get my shoes fixed properly or get my money back.”
He stopped for a breath. My turn.
“Here's what I propose to do to correct the situation, Mr. Simmons. While being fair to both sides, of course.”
I put my hands down and picked up a pencil and scratchpad.
“There's only one way to correct it,” he mimicked my accent. “Get my fucking shoes fixed and fixed now, or I'll fix your whole rotten shopping centre.
“In fact, maybe I'll do that, anyway. And let me tell you, Ms. Jenny Bloody Turnbull, Promotion Director, you won't like it. You won't like it one fuckin' bit, and neither will your friend downstairs or your 214 retail merchants, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.”
I dropped the pencil and paper, stood up and leaned towards him, both hands on the desk. I'd had it. First the pumpkins, then the missing elf and now this bottom feeder, and it wasn't even noon yet. This guy needed an attitude adjustment—big time.
“Mr. Simmons,” I said. “First, stop swearing. Second, remove your foot. If you don't do these two things, this conversation is over. You'll be escorted from the mall, and I'll issue a ban in your name. One copy will be delivered to the local precinct, which they will lodge in their files, and one copy will be sent to you. Registered mail, of course. What that means, Mr. Simmons, is that you will not be allowed back on this property, which by the way is private, not public, for a period of time which I can and will stipulate. In addition, where do you think your complaint will be filed?”
He took his foot off the desk and straightened in the chair, but I could see we weren't finished. He was furious. His lips had disappeared, and his cheeks were scarlet. But at least my desk was clear and his finger was still. Two points for me and none for him.
I remained standing. I liked looking down at him. “Even if I wanted to, I can't do anything about your complaint right now. Today is Halloween, and the mall is filled with kids and parents, all taking part in our pumpkin-carving, colouring and costume contests. I am not only overseeing the promotion, but have to judge the contests shortly, along with the Mayor and other local dignitaries and press people who were kind enough to give up their Saturday afternoon. I have no intention of cancelling any of that over a pair of shoes.
“Drop them off at the Information Booth on Monday. I'll have several of the shoe store owners examine them, give me their assessment of the repair, and we'll go from there. That's the best I can do and now, I'd like you to leave.”
He stood up. “Even if I agree to that—and I haven't yet, mind you—what about that Scotty bastard throwing me out which, by the way, I notice you ignored. What're you going to do about that?”
“Nothing, Mr. Simmons. He's the tenant. He pays the rent and has the right to control the access to that store. What happened is unfortunate, of course, but I really can't do anything about it.”
One point for Gord at Star Shoe Repair. And still none for Dick.
I moved around the desk and gestured to the door. He fired one last shot. “Well, I can fucking well do something about it. He won't do that to me in a hurry and get away with it.”
He shoved the chair against the wall with a bang and stamped off up the hall. Oh well, as my mother always said, stubborn is as stubborn does. He'd probably calm down over the weekend.
The word “asshole” came back as the outer door closed with a bang. I didn't know whether he meant me or Gord, but who cared? He was gone. I gave it a few seconds then moved quickly up the hall to lock the door.
The reception area houses Shirley, our secretary, all her paraphernalia, and a couch flagged by the standard end tables, lamps and coffee table. A few pieces of no-name art dot the walls.
Turning around, I looked at the couch. Five minutes couldn't hurt. I sank into it with a sigh of relief, kicked off my shoes and put my feet up on the coffee table, trying to organize my thoughts.
Halloween was well under way, even if it'd had a rocky start. Another six hours or so and we could start the clean up, then file the whole event under “D” for “Done”. Christmas was next, and it was well in hand, as were the Boxing Day Bonanza and the usual January Sidewalk Sale.
We never did much from my office for Valentine's, so I had a month or so to prepare for our Annual General Meeting in February. The tenants all pay so much per square foot for advertising and promos according to their lease, and the mall owners kick in a dollar amount as well. The tally becomes my promotion budget, and it looked like I was going to have to go for an increase next year. That meant planning a promotion schedule and working out the budget to include increased costs and to justify asking for more money. I'd already made a start on it, so things were in pretty good shape.
The phone on Shirley's desk rang.
“Jenny, it's Mary, down at the Info booth. You're needed at the pumpkin carving area. There's three eight-foot white rabbits dancing to rap music. And they've got all the kids doing it, too. The stores are complaining.”
I knew exactly what was going on. “Mary, just get one of the Security guys to walk over there and have a word with the DJ. Tell him to cool it, turn down the music and tell kids' stories or something. That'll stop the rabbits. I don't mind the dancing, but those kids are working with knives down there. I wouldn't want any of them getting carried away to the beat.”
Halloween. I hate it. It falls right behind Christmas and just before my hair on a list of things to hate that's stuck to the wall beside my desk. An ex-boyfriend, staring at my head,