Quintin scratched his beard while he waited for the family to decide which washer and dryer they planned on buying. The two of them talked to each other, rudely, in Spanish. Quintin understood them perfectly but didn’t let on that he did.
They were mostly concerned about price. It wasn’t like this was a small appliance shop, where they could bargain for things. This was Home Depot. The only thing he could do was push for the credit plan, or steer them to something a little less stylish and more functional.
However, for some strange reason, this family was pretty typical in the Latino culture. They wanted to show their extravagance with a stainless steel washer and dryer. What was the point? The appliances were in a laundry room. Not like a refrigerator – he sold a LOT of stainless steel fridges to Latinos.
They were also pretty typical in letting their kids run wild and free in the appliance section. He always took bets on whether or not some kid would stuff another into a fridge, and how long it would take for them to get the kid out. He waited.
Finally the husband lifted his head and looked at Quintin. Quintin knew they had made a decision and now he needed to push the credit plan. “This is too much,” the man said in heavily accented English.
“We do offer a twelve-month, no-interest credit plan. You pay it off in twelve months, there’s no interest at all to you. If you get this, together, it will only cost you just a little bit over a hundred dollars a month to pay it off.”
“No interest?”
“For twelve months, yes, sir.”
The wife chattered in better-accented English, “We can’t afford another hundred dollars a month.”
“Well, how about fifty dollars a month?”
They looked at each other. Quintin glanced around conspiritorially, and then steered them around the corner. His leg was acting up, so his limp was pronounced as he walked around. “This one, the drum is a little smaller. But the price is a lot lower.” He went into the energy efficiency, compared the two models, basically putting it forth that the only difference was the drum size. He didn’t tell them that there were less options on the washer, the speed was a little slower, it would use more water, take more time – but it was stainless steel!
Again, chattering in Spanish. The kids had returned, obviously bored with opening and closing every single door in the department. Someone must have put some shelving in the fridges because it didn’t look like any kids were missing.
The man looked up. “Yes, we can do that.”
As Quintin expected, the wife belittled the husband. He snapped at her. Quintin, swallowing a smile, turned from them and went to the cashier’s kiosk and grabbed some paperwork. The other young man there glared at him. “Asshole,” he snarled under his breath.
Quintin didn’t know whether he was kidding or not. The kid was new, and he showed it with his lack of knowledge. Quintin knew that people gravitated toward him because he was older and he looked like he knew what he was talking about. Also, Quintin would do things that would make it seem like people were getting something for nothing – like he did right now, crossing off the $50 delivery charge. It would cut into his commission, but he would get a larger percent of his commission because the taxes wouldn’t be as much.
Plus, Quintin had a funny name. Word of mouth spread when he did things such as this. Most people would come in asking for “The Q Guy”, knowing he could give them a break. Quintin undercut all the sales people on the floor consistently, and most of them moved out of the department because of it. His boss loved him, and the sales he raked in.
Quintin got their credit and finished up the paperwork in half an hour. By then, the new kid was no where to be seen, and there were three other clutches of people milling around. Frowning, Quintin checked in on all three, and got another sale in another hour. Still, no kid.
One of the guys from the garden shop came by, and Quintin asked him to go look for the new kid for him. It started getting late, Quintin hadn’t had his break, and the garden shop guy never came back. He called Mark, the section manager, when there were no people around.
“MANIGAN!” Quintin heard Mark bellow the kid’s surname from a few aisles down. Mark was a lot shorter than Quintin, but he had an amazing set of lungs – he often didn’t use the intercom. “You’re fired!”
Quintin saw the kid come storming back to the department. Quintin could smell the tell-tale scent of weed coming off of him in waves, and he instinctively jerked his head back. Quintin been on the wagon for three years now. He took out the one-year AA medallion that he kept in his pocket as a talisman and walked it along his knuckles while he avoided watching the scene unfold.
Mark followed Manigan into the department, two big guys from lumber flanking him. “Gimme your card, everything.” Mark’s caffe au lait skin was flushed dark with fury. Manigan threw everything onto the desk in defiance. The two guys then escorted him out the nearest entrance, the garden shop.
Watching him go, Mark shoved his hands in his pockets. “What the fuck is up with kids these days?”
Quintin snorted, pocketed the medallion. “Please don’t tell me I’ll be here all weekend by myself.”
He rocked on his heels, thinking. “No, I’ll move Sherry from paint over.”
“Need me to give her a rundown?”
“I think she knows what a fridge does.” Mark still looked distracted. “Fucking turnover here is incredible, Quinn. What the hell are you doing?”
Quintin shrugged at Mark’s look. “They think they know it all when they come in here.”
Mark humphed. “Well, clean up.”
“I didn’t get a break.”
“Fuckin’ union.” Mark waved his hand. “Go.”
Quintin limped badly, exaggerating it to show him that he was in pain over this job. He was sure Mark didn’t know if he was kidding or not. He wasn’t.
Notes: Quintin is a character that I’m developing for Grim’s second novel. There’s a few other things about him that aren’t explored here yet.
Words: 1062