After arranging the final display in the new jewelry department at Zayre, in Elgin, Bob and George, the district manager and district supervisor of the company behind the jewelry department, left for a coffee break. Bob, calling as he left, "Don't let anyone steal our jewelry now."
"No one is going to steal anything," I thought optimistically, while I polished the glass cabinets which held watches, lights and the more expensive jewelry.
When I was finished with the housekeeping, I stood behind the counter and tried to look like I'd been standing there for two years instead of two days. A few people bought things, and I rang up their purchases and gave them their change with no mishaps. All in all, everything was going very smoothly. A few women were milling around the various displays, chattering about how this or that looked. A man, tall and dark with a blue shirt was looking at the "genuine artificial" pukka shell necklaces. I had seen this man earlier that day in the store. He would be carrying a jacket or a pair of pants at one time and the next time nothing at all or something different.
Now the man was looking in one direction, then the other. He would pick up something and then put it back. He walked around the counter, still staring at people. For some reason I was careful not to catch his eye. I busied myself with straightening an already perfect display and figured that if I ignored this strange man he would go away. I suddenly caught myself -- what if the manager came back and I was being discourteous to a customer?
"Can I help you?" I asked the man, giving him a smile. He shook his head and continued swiveling his head, looking around the store.
After trying not to look self-conscious, I was startled by a loud rap on the glass cabinet at the end of the counter. Turning around, I saw that the stranger was now staring at me. I approached him and he pushed one of the fake pukka necklaces across the counter towards me. He shook his head. "Don't you want this?" I asked, wondering if he was deaf or couldn't talk for some reason. He shook his head again, but didn't open his mouth. I took the necklace and hung it on the peg it had come form and resumed my vigil at the cash register.
After about five more minutes, the man walked up to the register. He was still staring wildly around, mostly at the women in the jewelry department. He reached into his pocket with his right hand and while he groped for something there, with his left hand, handed me a wallet he had picked up off a shelf and said, "Now don't get nervous. Don't ring this up; I'm not buying it."
He looked around once more and slowly pulled his hand from his pocket. My heart was pounding as I watched his hand emerge from his pocket, expecting the worst.
"Oh thank God!" I thought, when I saw what he held in his hand was not a gun, but a black comb, three one dollar bills and some change.
"I'm security," he explained, "just give me a bag and make it look like this is real.
I pushed the total button on the cash register, put his "purchase" in a bag and stapled a fake receipt to the bag. As the tall, dark, "security" man walked away I felt my heart return to its normal spot in the center of my chest instead of in my throat where it had been for the past few minutes.
Note:
I vividly remember the security guard who was the basis for this story. It really did happen this way, although I'd forgotten the details until reading this.
The man was probably in his mid-twenties. He was tall and handsome in a foreign way. He told me he was from Hawaii and not Pakistan which is where the rest of the security guards were from.
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