Much to my chagrin, I have recently learned that the response, "Please, I am Stephanie," doesn't ameliorate every situation. It is my usual defense mechanism and go-to for just about every type of interaction, but since most people don't actually know who I am, it isn't always effective. Sometimes it doesn't even work at all. Weird, I know.
Let me provide an example. I've literally never wanted to say my name so many times in my entire life.
A lady comes in, dress bag in hand. She evaluates her options and then grabs six or seven pairs of shoes. Unveiling her dress, she begins to match and coordinate an appropriate heel to complete her outfit. However, that is not good enough. She must get the full effect. She asks if she can put her dress on. I mean, go for it. Not exactly curious to see how exactly she was going to approach a mid-room wardrobe change, I break eye contact and stare at my Apple Jacks.
From my peripheral vision, I see twisting and turning every which way. Finally, feeling her body heat and exhaustion from the struggle all the way across the room, I remind her that we have a bathroom. At first, she refuses, but then she must have come to the realization of how moronic she looked hunched over, with her head hanging through the arm hole of her one-of-a-kind Belk exclusive. She scurries off, changes and returns a moment later.
After checking herself out more than I have ever seen anyone check themselves out when shoes are involved, she sighs heavily. Unsure of whether she was just exasperated from her recent hustle or she suffered from a severe respiratory syncytial virus infection, I decided ignoring her would be the best solution. She sighs again. I hold my eye contact on the YouTube video playing silently on the screen in front of me. And again, she sighs. The loudest one yet. I look up to see if I should seek medical care or a pump of some sort. I catch her taking pictures of herself in the mirror, hardly getting the shoe in the shot. Who knows how long she had been doing this, for there was no sound on her camera phone. Lucky bitch.
Finally forced to face the awkward situation at hand, I inquire as to whether she needs help or would prefer to continue making her foray into professional modeling. Her photo shoot ceases. She looks at me. She looks back into the mirror. She looks at me. Her face contorts into an almost replica of Bonnie's when she used put on blush in high school... four inches away from the mirror. I had seen this face before. I was prepared.. or so I thought. What came next makes me ashamed to be alive. Oh, by the way. I am dramatic.
SLY: "Is everything ok?"
Belk Betty: "Do you mind helping me?"
SLY: "Not at all."
Belk Betty: "Great!"
Silence.
SLY: "Uh, did you have something in mind?"
Belk Betty: "I think so."
SLY: "Oh. Ok."
Silence.
Belk Betty: "Ok, I really need you to come over here."
SLY: "Oh, sorry."
I slowly approach her studio.
SLY: "Yes?"
Belk Betty: "I need you to dance with me."
SLY: "Haha. Uhm, what?"
Belk Betty: "Now, just one second. Put your arms like this."
She extends her arms in a position that no dance should ever begin.
SLY: "Oh, you're serious?"
Belk Betty: "Here, darling."
She takes my arms and positions them to her liking.
At this point, I'm hoping for the tango. If need be, though, I've got the foxtrot on reserve. I guess you could call it my safety dance, but nothing about this situation seemed safe. I try to anticipate her next movement, whether that be a shuffle or a swift reach for a weapon. There was no telling what kind of crazy shit this woman was going to pull. She takes a step closer and the material from her dress grazes against my leg. I shutter. Ok, lady. You poke it, you own it. I take a deep breath and decide to throw my dignity to the wind. Goodbye, dignity. Hello, Dance Dance Evolution.
Prepared for some type of pervy geriatric move, I wince in discomfort. I stand there as she rocks back and forth, putting every type of foot position into her performance to fully test out the shoes.
Belk Betty: "Here, spin me."
SLY: "What?"
She raises my arm and spins herself.
SLY: "Oh, I see."
Belk Betty: "That was good."
SLY: "Oh, for you too?"
She didn't get my joke.
Belk Betty: "What do you think?"
SLY: "Of the shoes or your dancing?"
Belk Betty: "You're too funny. The shoes, honey!"
SLY: "They are good. I mean, they seem to be staying on your feet."
Months at this establishment and having a foot stay in place is still my only viable advice to customers.
Belk Betty: "How do they make my calves look?"
SLY: "I mean, I think they look good."
Belk Betty: "You're not just saying that are you?"
Lady, you are still holding my hand. I would say anything to not be touching you right now.
SLY: "Of course not."
Belk Betty: "You're a gorgeous little girl."
SLY: "Haha. Thank you?"
I release her grip and take a step back.
She continues to twirl and attempt what can only be guesstimated as a one-sided shag. For what it's worth, that was not dancing. That? That was abuse.
SLY: "So, what is the event you're going to again?"
Belk Betty: "My friend's wedding. Well, not her wedding, but her daughter's wedding."
SLY: "Oh, that's fun!"
Belk Betty: "Not exactly, but I need to look better than she does. Not my friend's daughter, but my friend."
SLY: "Ahh. Got it."
Belk Betty: "She used to date my husband, you see."
SLY: "Oh, wow."
She continues her body movement. I make my way back to my throne. Small talk ensues. Distant small talk. You know, the safe kind. She tells me all about her son and how she always thought he would marry her friend's daughter, but it didn't work out. They dated in high school, but she got a little loose when they went off to different colleges. Her son knew better than to deal with that so, "that ended real quick."
We are soon met with silence again. Due to this, attention is drawn to the radio playing around us. The Sophie B. Hawkins classic, "Damn, I Wish I Was Your Lover" had been playing.
Belk Betty: "Oh! Oh!"
I look up.
SLY: "Is, uh... everything alright?"
Belk Betty: "This song!"
SLY: "Haha, yea. It's a.. uh, good one."
Hesitation on her part.
Belk Betty: "My husband thinks so too."
She then smirks to herself and continues her gaze into the mirror. A moment passes.
Belk Betty: "He thinks so, alright."
Awkward laughter into silence. By me, naturally.
Belk Betty: "It was 1996, I think."
SLY: "What?"
Belk Betty: "This song. I think it was 1996. It was our anniversary."
Oh my god. She is going to explain what is going through her mind right now. Oh my god. No. Please. God. No.
I immediately pretend that I hear the phone ringing in the back of the store.
There is no phone in the back of the store.
Belk Betty: 0
SLY: 1