Happy Thanksgiving, Marcy
This past Sunday, my boss decided to let Marcy walk into the store at 7:15 p.m., 15 minutes after close. As he unlocked the door, I was motioning to him from behind a manikin to please, please not do this. He let her in anyway. Marcy means well, but she is in the process of losing her mind. She comes to the shoe store three times a week and tells us exactly how she feels about her dying husband, who is an asshole. She has talked to me about him for hours. She has never once named him. But he is the worst. I assume she chooses not to name him because of how much of an asshole he is.
When Marcy first started coming to the store, she latched onto my-coworker Gad. Not physically, but emotionally. This was months ago. Gad is a sweetheart, a true gentle giant, but he enabled her with his listening ear for hours on end and essentially gave her permission to seek out the neighborhood running shop as a place to let off steam. Then Gad—damn that kind young man and his empathy— put his two weeks in, and now the rest of us have to deal with this woman and her endless bullshit.
To my boss’s credit, he only cracked the door at first and explained to Marcy that he was only going to let her into the store if she promised to immediately buy the shoes we had repeatedly put on hold for her. It did not occur to me for a second that she would actually buy them. Marcy comes to the store 2-3 times a week, always around 30 minutes before close. She then launches into a diatribe about the complete loser she’s married to and why he sucked so much that day. Her ailing husband complains constantly. He never thanks her. He has no idea how good he has it, and it’s pushing his wife to the brink. Marcy has become increasingly unhinged during the eight weeks or so that I have known her, her eyes always a little more chaotic than they were before. I wouldn’t be surprised if one of these days I found out she had murdered this man in his sleep.
Every day in Marcy’s life is hell, and for that I genuinely do feel bad. But it’s always the same. Always a new catastrophe, the latest being that her husband’s children are in town, and they’re worse than he is, and boy, the nerve of that daughter of his. That dumb, ungrateful bitch has no idea the lengths to which Marcy has gone to keep her demon of a father alive. At least this is what I have gathered. Marcy’s stories are very detailed, and she clearly expects me to remember all the characters and plot twists that unfolded during the previous episode, which I do not. I take in the basics. Then I stop paying attention and wait for her to tell me to keep those Brooks Ghost 13’s and New Balance 860v11’s on hold until next time, because she’s “just not in a position mentally or emotionally to make a decision between the two right now, thanks to him.”
Before Sunday, I didn’t think she was in a position financially either. I once explained to Marcy the whole strategy behind Brooks’ stability GuideRail technology, to which she responded, “Witt, I’m gonna be honest, I have a dollar and eight cents in my bank account right now.” And I totally felt her on that. Times are tough out here. I went ahead and put the shoes on hold. So you can imagine my suspicion when she told my boss that she was fully prepared to step inside and ball out on two new pairs of sneakers. But that’s exactly what she did.
In all likelihood, Marcy will return the shoes next week. She’ll say they felt different when she got home and ask if I’m sure I gave her the right size. Before I can say yes, she will begin describing whatever nightmare unfolded in her home on Thanksgiving. She will find a way to curse her husband’s name without using his actual name. She will ask what happened to Gad and why he’s not around anymore, questions we have already answered numerous times. And then she will ask if we can keep the shoes she just returned on hold. “I like the shoes. It’s just…this man. No words. I’ll be back in a couple days when my mind is right.”