Mr. Tilles introduced me to the repair crew when they came in a little before nine: John, the gaunt blond; Pete, an older man with half-glasses; and Louise, a grandmotherly woman with a short, gray-brown perm, who wore upswept, blue plastic-framed bi-focals. After welcoming me into the fold - - so to speak - - they filed through the partition door and I took my place behind the counter. Soon, men began walking in with pocket lighters for servicing or repair. When women came in, they lugged department store shopping bags, saying, "My husband (brother, uncle, boyfriend, etc.) wanted me to bring this in." Their bags were weighed down with heavy table model lighters: the Crown, Regal, or Queen Ann, the ship, animal, and naked lady - - like the Standing Nude pictured here - - or gold plated, sterling-silver plate, marble, crystal, or ceramic. (See them at: http://transporter.tripod.com or, Google "Ronson.") My main job was to sell the lighters in the display case or talk people into buying one from the dog-eared catalogue, resting on the counter. “Oh, you can order this model and it will be shipped to you in a week - - or two at the most!” I enthused. I loved feeling the heft and slippery metallic coolness of a chrome, silver, or gold-plated pocket lighter against my palm when I slid it out of its box to show a customer. But few bought new ones.
An aspect of my job that Mr. Tilles never mentioned at my interview was that he expected me to diagnose lighter malfunctions at the counter though I was not to attempt to fix them (I did learn to pull out wicks with tweezers). What did I know? No one in my immediate family owned a Ronson. My Aunt Dorothy, my father’s sister, had a Queen Ann model that never worked. But she refused to let me take it in to get fixed. She said it reminded her of her ex-husband, my Uncle Bill, who ran away with her best friend.
An aspect of my job that Mr. Tilles never mentioned at my interview was that he expected me to diagnose lighter malfunctions at the counter though I was not to attempt to fix them (I did learn to pull out wicks with tweezers). What did I know? No one in my immediate family owned a Ronson. My Aunt Dorothy, my father’s sister, had a Queen Ann model that never worked. But she refused to let me take it in to get fixed. She said it reminded her of her ex-husband, my Uncle Bill, who ran away with her best friend.
John and the others showed me how to detect problems: “This one needs a new flint, see?” “This - - a new flint wheel, feel how smooth it is?” “There’s a new flint in there, but it doesn’t spark - - the guy flooded it. Too much fluid.” When people brought in their lighters (some arrived in the mail), I made out a repair slip with my diagnosis and passed the lighter and the slip, in a heavy ochre-colored paper bag, to the crew through the doggie-door cut into the partition behind me (for a table model I would Scotch tape the repair slip and job bag to it and lug it through the people door myself). Wearing their limp, grimy, gray smocks, sitting at a long, wooden counter behind the partition, they tested and repaired lighters. All day. Little bins of Ronson parts sat in front of them: serrated wheels and flint holders, tiny plungers, screws, and springs; along with flints, wicks, and cotton to pack inside the case to absorb Ronsonol, Ronson's trade-mark lighter fluid. The crew's blackened, stained fingers smelled of it. The entire area reeked of the stuff, which after a while, I got used to. Piles of work envelopes threatened to avalanche from the counter to the floor. When John or one of the others repaired a lighter, they jingled a little bell and slid the lighter in its bag through the door, and I rang up the cost they jotted down on the slip, on the cash register.
Ken Tilles was waiting for me one morning, after I'd been there a week. “Uh, sweetheart,” he said, as I put my coat and purse away, “I see that your cash was off last night by twenty dollars - - in the customer’s favor.” I didn’t say anything. “Do you know what I mean? It means that we lost money, honey. Ronson is supposed to make money. The customer is not supposed to make money off us!” I said I was sorry. “You have to be more careful when you count your change back, understand?” I felt my face burn and just knew it was bright red, sure the repair crew heard every word. I made an effort. Still, I sometimes was confused when I didn’t get the exact change.
When no one came in I hung out behind the display case, leaned on the counter, leafed through the catalogue, and picked out gorgeous models for myself, sensing The Iron Monster’s presence over my shoulder. I wasn’t used to standing all day in high heels. By afternoon, my feet hurt. So I sat on a tall stool I found tucked out of sight next to the register. One day, Mr. Tilles saw me. His thick, black brows drew together above his nose. “Hey, doll, look, I don’t want customers seeing you loafing.” “Oh, okay,” I said, kicking off my heels and standing at the counter in my stocking feet. He shook his head and disappeared through the people door. On the days he was out, I sat on the stool. But this wasn’t the only thing that caused his brows to meet. It seemed no matter how hard I tried, I still had problems balancing the cash at the end of the day. I began to sense a cold blade on the back of my neck.
Ken Tilles was waiting for me one morning, after I'd been there a week. “Uh, sweetheart,” he said, as I put my coat and purse away, “I see that your cash was off last night by twenty dollars - - in the customer’s favor.” I didn’t say anything. “Do you know what I mean? It means that we lost money, honey. Ronson is supposed to make money. The customer is not supposed to make money off us!” I said I was sorry. “You have to be more careful when you count your change back, understand?” I felt my face burn and just knew it was bright red, sure the repair crew heard every word. I made an effort. Still, I sometimes was confused when I didn’t get the exact change.
When no one came in I hung out behind the display case, leaned on the counter, leafed through the catalogue, and picked out gorgeous models for myself, sensing The Iron Monster’s presence over my shoulder. I wasn’t used to standing all day in high heels. By afternoon, my feet hurt. So I sat on a tall stool I found tucked out of sight next to the register. One day, Mr. Tilles saw me. His thick, black brows drew together above his nose. “Hey, doll, look, I don’t want customers seeing you loafing.” “Oh, okay,” I said, kicking off my heels and standing at the counter in my stocking feet. He shook his head and disappeared through the people door. On the days he was out, I sat on the stool. But this wasn’t the only thing that caused his brows to meet. It seemed no matter how hard I tried, I still had problems balancing the cash at the end of the day. I began to sense a cold blade on the back of my neck.
Chapter One: "Spoiled" continues: Smoking rules, I develop a crush. A woman comes in sans lighter to see Mr. Tilles; she has an appointment. I think nothing of it.
No comments:
Post a Comment