By Jon Swanson
“Are you Martha or Molly?” I figured it was a simple question. He acted like he owned the place.
“I’m George,” he said.
|The sign says Martha and Molly’s,
but the customer service was George’s.
It was a clothes and shoes shop in northwest Ohio, on a road where most of the cars are from out of the area. We were there because we weren’t ready to end our short vacation. Most of the other people were there, I’m guessing, for similarly non-residential reason.
When we walked into the store, George said that he’d give our daughter Hope a discount on the moccasins she was looking for if I smiled. I didn’t, not really. I’m not a good smiler, even for a discount.
Hope had come in a few minutes ahead of us. He chatted with us. He chatted with her.
When it came time to pay, I asked about cards. “Cash, check, or mail it to me,” he said. I looked up. He was looking at me, waiting for my choice of three serious options. We went for check. But it turns out that he really does let people walk out of the store with his products and a promise to pay.
“Only been stiffed once,” he said. “I should have known better with them anyway.”
I’m not sure whether we got the smiling discount or the good parent-daughter relationship discount or the because-I-run-the-store discount. Whatever it was, it helped.
And I smiled as we walked out. Not because of the discount. Because of George.