“I used to manage a luxury jewelry store. The kind with just a few items on display at any given time and most items were more than an average person’s annual salary.
One of the regulars was a woman who just oozed witch out of every pore. She would remind us, constantly, that she was ‘Ms. Saskatchewan, 1970’ which is a title that only a farmer and their sow should be proud of. It was also 30-ish years later.
My staff would scatter when we saw her coming, so I was often stuck helping her. On this particular day, she wanted a new strand of pearls.
We go through the showcase, and she puts on a strand of Tahitian pearls priced at $38,500. She hems and haws with her daughter, nods, and then…walks out of the store.
It took me a minute for my brain to register what was going on.
I dashed down the mall after her, and when I caught up, said, ‘Ms. 1970, you didn’t pay for those.’
I felt like Medusa was turning me to stone with the look she gave me.
Ms. 1970: ‘Just put it on my credit card. You’re embarrassing me.’
Me: ‘We don’t keep card numbers on file, it’s a security concern. It will only take a minute.’
She turned as if to walk off, and then undid the clasp, slid the pearls into her hand, and FLUNG them down the busy mall.
I was too busy scrambling after the pearls to hear if she said anything else, but she stopped coming to the store after that.”
