The Customer Is Always Right

I used to be a punk. In high school I had all the wrong friends and I made all the wrong decisions. We were wanna be thugs. "Wanna be" because we were all bark and no bite. We looked the part of thugs but we never got around to actually being thugs. We talked about causing trouble and always seemed to be on the brink of doing something, but when it came time to actually do it, nothing ever happened.

When high school came to an end, I had to figure out my life. My mediocre grades earned me no scholarships. I had to decide what I wanted my life to look like. So, I broke away from my loser friends, enrolled in part-time classes at the college in town and found myself a part-time job to pay for those classes. I still live at home with my parents, but other than rent, I pay my own way in life. It will take me seven years at this rate, but I will graduate from college.

My break from my old friends was a complete one. We don't talk, we don't hang out. I hope that they're all getting their shit together too. I think that Dominic, our self-proclaimed leader and my former best friend, has a job with the city doing road work. Since road work is a twelve month season in this town, he should be employed year-round if he takes it seriously.

If I'm honest with myself, I always had a little bit of a bro-crush on Dominic. He had wavy brown hair, steel grey eyes, a confident swagger and a crooked grin that would draw me to him like a moth to a flame. I hated it, but I couldn't deny it. And I think he sensed it. He would catch my lingering eye and just know. He knew he held a bit of a spell over me but he would feign ignorance as he would take advantage. He would find little ways to brush up against me. Sitting next to me, his thigh would press into mine. His sneaker would toe mine under a table. Always incidental. Always deniable from the standpoint of intent.

When we were seniors, we had a swimming unit in gym class. Dominic's locker was right next to mine. One day, changing back into clothes after gym, I opened my locker to find that my underwear and socks were missing. Clever, because to any observer, with my t-shirt, jeans and shoes in place, nothing appeared to be wrong, but I had to be uncomfortable all day with rough denim rubbing (and stimulating) my dick. And I hate the feeling of wearing sneakers without socks. Squishing around in there is gross. And smelly. He did this every day for a week. My mom had to buy me new socks and underwear. When she assumed I'd been going through a spell of wet dreams (underwear) and masturbation (socks), I had to let her believe that was it because what else could I say? And Dominic would never admit what he was doing anyway. There was no proof.

I always wondered what he did with my dirty socks and underwear. He probably just threw them out. It was just a game to him. And again, being socks and underwear, no one else ever knew. It was just between him and me. A private humiliation. And I never mentioned it. He continued to play innocent and I suffered through his torture. It only stopped because I got a new lock for my locker and guarded the combination with my life. That's who my supposed best friend was. I was glad to leave him behind after graduation.

My part-time job is at an upscale men's shoe store. Jared, my boss, hired me to work evenings and close the store at night so he can be home with his family. We're not usually busy at night, so I often have time to read and study for my classes.

The store is unique because it's full-service, like shoes stores used to be decades ago, but in a modernized way. We provide expert measurements, mini foot massages and we dress and undress the feet of our customers, who enjoy the entire experience from the comfort of a reclining massage chair. It's a fusion of retro service with futuristic technology. Measurements are not just foot length, but width and toe pocket room too. Then, we custom make the shoes to match their individual feet. I learned in my training that properly fitted shoes are crucial to much more than just foot health. In addition to corns, bunions, high arches and plantar fasciitis, properly fitted shoes guard against knee problems, back problems and general fatigue. Jared tells me that one of the worst things a person can do is to by a pair of shoes off the shelf in any other type of store. He tells me that we do important work.

We are also affiliated with a men's store in town that both sells and rents formalwear. We take measurements for pants, suit jackets, dress shirts, and hats and forward on the results. We get a percentage back from the purchases made by customers referred by us. Jared tells me that spring is our busiest time of the year between prom and wedding season. Right now, it's late August and we're kind of slow.

It's a Monday night and I'm studying for a Chem test when the bell on the front door jingles. I look up and it's Dominic walking into the shop. I haven't seen him in more than a year. He is not wearing the thug clothes I'm used to seeing him in, but that might only be because he's in his road construction uniform: blue twill pants, a button down blue twill work shirt and work boots. When he spots me, his eyes just about jump out of their sockets.

"Hunter!" He makes me fist-bump him. "You work here?"

Not that I wanted him to know. I reluctantly nod.

"What the fuck is this place?"

"It's a men's shoe store." I give him a brief explanation of our mission as it is fresh in my mind from recent training.

He smiles, "I need a better pair of work boots. The ones I have are killing me."

I look down and I'm not surprised. They look like the cheap crap that Walmart sells. But I really don't want Dominic to be my customer. He represents a time of my life that I regret and that I've moved on from. Besides, can he afford the shoes and services we sell? That sounds like I'm a snobbish asshole, but the truth is, I myself can't afford to shop here either. I was given a pair to "represent" the product to our customers.

I tell Dominic, "We do work boots. They start at $300."

He lets out a low whistle, "Hey! How about a family discount for your old buddy?"

I shake my head, "Dominic, I'll get fired. I need my job."

"Settle down. I was just kidding."

He totally was NOT kidding.

"My feet really are killing me. Let me see what you can do. I'll take your full service. It doesn't cost anything if I don't actually buy a pair of shoes, does it?"

I'm about to politely suggest to Dominic that he leave when Jared comes out of the back office, briefcase in hand and ready to go home for the night. He notices Dominic and says, "Oh, you have a customer. Wonderful. I'll talk to you tomorrow."

I rush over to him, "Jared, he's not a real customer. He needs a pair of boots but he can't afford us. He wandered in here not knowing what kind of store we are. I know him from high school a few years back. He's only still here so he can give me a hard time. He wants to make me go through the whole service, even though he intends to buy nothing."

I expect Jared to ask Dominic to leave, but instead he turns to me, "Hunter, one of the first rules of service is to never make the decision for the customer. Give him the information he needs and let him decide for himself. You don't know what he can't afford. Never presume. He is a customer and you have a job. I suggest you do it."

"But he doesn't—"

"Hunter! That man is a customer and you will treat him with respect. If I get a complaint from him or from anyone else about your service, I will fire you. I gave you a chance because you seemed like a nice kid, but believe me, you are very replaceable."

That's nice. Just the words everyone aspires to hear.

You are replaceable

.

Jared leaves and I'm left alone with Dominic. Dominic and his stinking feet in his beat up filthy cheap boots. I sigh. I can't lose my job. If I lose my job, I can't pay my tuition.

I walk back over to Dominic, "Let's get you measured." I gesture for him to sit in one of the custom reclining massage chairs. He does and I power on the near silent vibration feature and sit on a stool in front of him.

I tell him, "Go ahead and take your shoes off."

He shakes his head. "Full service. That means I get to sit back and relax while you remove my boots for me."

I sigh again and place his left foot on the slanted plane of my stool. I pull up on his pant leg, exposing the top of his boot before tugging on the lace. The lace is now untied, but it is laced too tight for me to yank the nasty boot off. I have to loosen the laces from the top rung by rung until the tongue of the boot is no longer strangled against his lower shin.

As I pull the boot free, I ask, "What size do you usually wear?"

He shrugs, "Whatever fits. What size are those?"

I bend back the tongue and find a fading label that indicates a United States size of 10.5.

He says, "Sometimes elevens feel better on my right foot."

"You're not alone," I tell him. "Many people have one foot a little bigger than the other and shoe stores don't let you mix sizes, but here we custom make the shoes to fit each foot. You don't have to settle for too big or too small on one foot or the other."

I don't know why I'm telling him this. He is not a real customer and he intends to buy nothing. This is payback for getting my shit together and leaving him behind. Or, he's just having his thug fun at the expense of whomever would have been here in this store.

It is a warm August evening capping off a hot August day. This man spent that hot day working road construction. His cheap boots are not odor free. But honestly, it's not pungent. It's a manly musk that I really don't mind. I've smelled way worse. I work in a full-service men's shoe store after all. But for his gratification, I pretend like he stinks like the thug he yearns to be. He wiggles his toes and giggles.

I work off his right boot with the same excruciatingly slow process as the left. His socks are tight and damp with sweat as I measure his feet with the Brannock Device. I tell him, "You were right. Your left foot is a 10.5 and your right is an 11. And your width is a 'D'. Let's go assess your pressure points."

He asks, "Don't you still have more measurements to take?" He pulls our brochure out of his back pocket. "My sizes get confirmed by hand measurements as well to ensure accuracy and quality." He flashes me that old crooked grin that I haven't seen in a long, long time. I hate that it makes me tingle a little. And he totally knows it too.

Everything he just said is a direct quote from the brochure, which he obviously snagged and read while I was talking to Jared.

I smile politely, "I'll get to that. I prefer to take the pressure points assessment first, with the socks on."

He leans forward, "You know, Hunter, I heard your boss talking to you earlier. I might have been eavesdropping a little. All I have to do to get you fired is to tell your boss tomorrow that you gave me less than perfect service tonight. All you have to do to prevent that from happening is to demonstrate to me that the customer is always right. I prefer to finish the measurements first."

He plops his left foot in my lap, flexes his socked toes and grins like an asshole. It's like no time has passed. Dominic is back in my life for mere minutes and he's already dominating me in private humiliation between just the two of us. He is the leader making me follow. And only he and I know it. To any observer, he is a legitimate customer and I am simply doing my job.

My job that I desperately need. If I didn't...

I push his pant leg up to his knee, slip two fingers under the his sock and begin the slow pull as damp fabric peels away from warm skin. A new wave of his musk fills the room and my nostrils. His foot looks surprisingly soft and supple for a laborer. It is not too hairy, not too boney and not too veiny. His toe tips have a pinkish hue and his toenails are surprisingly well-manicured. I would not be surprised if he has had a pedicure in the last month. This is an adult men's shoe store and rarely do I see such pretty looking feet. It is particularly surprising on this thug.

I use the cloth tape measure to ensure I align with every contour of his foot. I measure the top, the sole and the girth in three places. I record all measurements on his customer chart. Next, I peel off his right sock and repeat the program. A couple of times, my finger slips and drags up his arch making him flinch and jump. Oops.

"The machine is next," I say.

He disagrees, "I'm ready for my first foot massage."

"But that's not until after you try on the prototype."

"Are you telling me I'm wrong?"

I really wish another customer would walk in and I'd have to divide my attention. Hopefully Dominic would get bored and just leave. But it's the slow season and no such luck.

"You are definitely not wrong," I assure him as I swallow my pride.

I sit back down and begin a two-handed massage of his left foot. I knead and rub up his arch and he leans back, reclining his chair. He has a satisfied grin on his face as I work him up and down the length of his size 10.5 foot. I give him thumb swirls on the ball of his foot and he lets out a blissful moan. I massage each toe individually and he giggles softly. When I move to switch to his right foot his eyes pop open.

"That was never ten minutes."

"Right," I say. "It was five. Five minutes per foot is a ten minute massage."

"That's not how I interpret the service." He taps the brochure. "It reads to me like it's supposed to be ten minutes per foot. Don't make me call Jared tomorrow."

I go back to his left foot. I seize it harder than I should and he jumps again. "Sorry."

He just grins.

I squeeze the back of his heel and he groans in pleasure, so I keep this up for most of the remaining five minutes. I finish with more dual thumb action up and down his long arch and his whole body is relaxed in his reclining massage chair. At the ten minute mark, I switch to his right foot. This time, he has no complaints. His right foot has not desensitized yet so it jerks and bounces at my first few grabs and squeezes. By the time I finish the right foot, he's no longer self-conscious about the embarrassing moans I brought out of him. I can't help but notice that the modest bulge in the crotch of his khaki twill pants is a little less modest than it was before the massage. I don't want to notice his bulge, but it's there and I have eyes. It's also evidence that this asshole is enjoying this way too much. I discretely adjust my own crotch situation as to not reveal that I've chubbed up a bit myself.

I reapply his socks and lead him to the fancy scale like machine that will assess his pressure points and determine what the right inserts are for his custom shoes. Not that there will ever be an actual order placed. His weight is 153 pounds and I record his heel pressure numbers on his chart.

Next, we look through screenshots of dozens of different styles of work boots before he settles on three that he likes best. Though an actual order would mean a custom build, we do have prototypes of most styles and every size in the back room to give the customer an idea of the look and feel. Of course I am the one who has to lace and tie every boot as he takes an impossibly long time considering all three. I am also blackmailed into giving full foot massages between the trying on of each prototype - again, because this is how he interpreted the brochure. He ends up staying all the way until closing time. He tells me that he was impressed with my service so much, that he plans on being a loyal customer. He will come to me for all of his shoe needs.

And he has many. It seems as though he may need a new pair of shoes for every activity known to mankind. He needs new dress shoes, new runners, new shoes for both tennis and basketball, new sandals and so much more. He'll be back every night for weeks until we sort out his final order.

I will admit, the night seemed to go by faster than usual. But still. His sole objective is to humiliate me as punishment for moving on with my life. It's not okay.

The next afternoon I try talking to Jared again. He tells me that sometimes customers need time to make up their minds. Our services are expensive and it's a big decision. Dominic is a customer. I am expected to deliver the highest quality service to all customers.

That night, Dominic tells me that his sister's wedding is in October and he is thinking of renting a tux through our service. He has me measure and record his stats for his waistline (30"), his inseam (32"), his chest (42"), his neck (16"), his sleeves (34") and even his freaking hat size (just over 22"). He enjoys every second of making me take measurements and touch him in all these intimate ways. Every night for the next week and a half he comes in for some new made up shoe need. And every night, he makes me start from scratch like he's a new client. The previous night's measurements are never good enough. They cannot be trusted.

He never spends a dime.

The next Wednesday night, right at closing time and just a minute after Dominic had left, the phone rings. I answer and it's an excited Jared. When I first started working here, I approached the coach for the boys basketball team at my college, gave him a brochure and explained how our products and services could potentially improve the performance of and protect the health of his players. I gave him Jared's business card and now, the guy finally emailed him. He wants to bring a couple key players from the team in on Friday night to get measured, assessed and sample some prototypes. Jared is excited about the possibility of a bulk sale and promises me a nice bonus if it goes through. He informs me that he'll be staying late Friday to help me out since there will be more than one athlete and this is such a big sale.

I say, "Jared, that's great news! Unfortunately, you'll have to take care of them on your own. I'll be tied up with my favorite customer."

"What are you talking about?"

"Dominic. The guy I know from high school. I told you about him. He comes in every night like it's some kind of hazing ritual or something. He's never gonna buy anything."

"That's still going on? That was almost two weeks ago."

"Jared, it might never end."

He clears his throat, "It ends when he comes in tomorrow night. You tell him it's over and he's not welcome back. Look, Hunter, you did an amazing thing. If it goes well with the basketball team, then who knows? It could lead to deals with the baseball and football teams too. And these would be repeated annual sales. Everything has to go perfectly Friday night. End it with this Dominic guy tomorrow. I'm sorry I didn't listen to you the first time, but Hunter, I promise I will always trust you from now on."

~~

I get to get rid of Dominic. But, I still have Thursday night, and now that Jared is on my side, just maybe I can take this last night and have some fun of my own. After my Thursday class, I swing by the theatre department and visit the storage room for props. It takes some rummaging, but I find what I'm looking for. Surely no one will mind if I borrow stocks and handcuffs. After ten days of being Dominic's bitch, payback will be so sweet.

Dominic walks in at his usual time, safely after Jared has left for the night. He drops into his usual reclining massage chair and waits expectantly.

"Dominic, I was hoping you could do me a favor tonight."

He cocks a suspicious eyebrow, "What's that?"

"Well, we just received a new laser imaging device that supposedly measures much more accurately that any of the traditional methods. In this business, accuracy is everything. If I could try it out on you, we could compare the results to what I've been recording on your chart."