The Infamous Story of the Red Box
I should begin by saying that this post is rated PG 13. Maybe R. It depends on if it's the type to make you as uncomfortable as it makes me. If it does, then it's an R. This is my most embarrassing moment.
At various times in the past, my friends and I have discussed our most embarrassing moments. While some say “I don’t really have any worth telling” or “one time I tripped and fell really hard in front of a bunch of hot girls” or “mine is so bad I cannot even tell YOU all,” I always offer up freely my story affectionately now labeled “The Red Box Story.” Given the fact that I talk more openly about some things that I probably ought, I don’t mind sharing. It IS embarrassing. However, I’m removed from the story by about 15 years and my PTSD has subsided. So I’ll share.
Back in the days of high school, my family was broke. I took up a part time job working for CVS Drugstore in the Cumberland mall as had my brother, then my sister, then another sister, then a niece, then friends and so on. The company, back then, encouraged a familial atmosphere. One night, I was working at the register. My sister, Nancy, was working as a shift supervisor. It was towards the end of the night and she was back in the office counting down a drawer. I was doing the awkward and menial task of feather dusting the shelves and “facing” the aisles. This part of the night would have been an OCD patient’s favorite part, but I think I lost man cards and game with my flailing feather duster in hand. The slim cut red vest didn’t help.
The mall store, like all mall stores at the time, was closing. CVS had taken the philosophy that free standing stores were more profitable because they could have pharmacies. So, our store was having a “Going out of Business” sale. The whole center aisle was 75% off. Even the employees were feverishly filling up baskets with shampoo, chocolate, and duct tape. To look at some of the baskets, you’d have thought MacGyver was offering training courses at the local community college. The items were constantly changing depending on what was in overstock and so on.
A few days before, I was facing the aisle – pulling items forward and filling gaps. I noticed a collection of red boxes tossed on the top shelf with little care. I faced them. “Smoke-out” the box read. “Hmmmm. What’s this?” I read the back. This was before the days of Febreze or even Nicorette. The box made strong claims of getting out the scent of smoke and cigarettes from garments, furniture, car upholstery, and the like. At the time, my sister and my mum both smoked. My dad and I couldn’t stand the smell. So, I tucked the idea of a purchase in my back pocket and continued with the process of turning in my man cards. All I needed to do now was start humming “It’s a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood” while waving my duster, and I was sure to repel any parents with children in a 50 foot radius.
So that night, and apparently some product turnover later, a woman came to my register. While Nancy was in the office, I was at the counter alone. She had baskets full of stuff. So, I greeted her. “Good EVENING ma’am! How are you?!” I asked with the enthusiasm of a Chick Fila employee in Disney World on Christmas day. A lot has changed since high school. “Fine, thank you,” she said grimly. She began placing items on the counter. I felt it was my full duty to make everyone’s CVS experience their best one yet. So, out came the small talk.
“Catching some mighty good bargains, huh?!” She nodded. Then, over-thinking her response, I continued. She must have thought my remark was a slam. Maybe she thought I was calling her cheap! “Yeah, I’ve bought quite a bit of stuff over there too. It’s great to find deals.” Nothing. I got NOTHING. So I prodded some more. “Oh, chocolate. I love chocolate.” She looked up. Finally, she was noticing my existence. I was starting to wonder if she had assumed she was at the self check out that didn’t exist then. “I’m buyin’ a bunch a’stuff sose I can go sell it at the USELL Market on Saturday,” came her gruff reply. Did she think I was looking down on her? Women often think comments are related to their weight. Or maybe she thought I was a racist elitist? For real, though? I mean, I was working as a cashier. SHE was the smart one with the entrepreneurial spirit! “Well, that’s a smart idea. I hadn’t even though of that!” In hindsight, I was probably digging my hole deeper. But I was yet to take the plunge.
Finally, I came across a conversation piece. The red box. I picked up the red box!! Yes!! A moment to recollect my thoughts, and I was ready to let her see that I was on the same page as her. We had a deep-rooted connection. So I held up the red box. “Do you know if this works?” I asked. “I don’t know. I’m just buying a bunch of stuff. I’m not sure. I don’t even know half of what I picked up!” She responded. Well, that didn’t make sense. Despite the deals, who would pick up items willy nilly just to sell them at a giant flea market? Even the worst entrepreneur would buy items that would sell. Then it hit me. Perhaps this was a personal item for HER and she was embarrassed about smoking. After all, public places were going smoke-free and, Surgeon General’s warnings were laying it on thicker than a Southern Baptist Preacher, and anti-smoking organizations everywhere were making even Nancy Reagan’s “Just Say No” campaign look like a joke. The pressure was on and this woman thought I was judging her. How could I relate? I had to think fast.
Then it came to me. Show her you understand. “Yeah, I thought about buying it for my mum and my sister. The smell can get pretty strong sometimes. It gets in your hair. (This was the main reason I hated going bowling with friends in high school.) It smells up your clothes. (Oh no, she’s going to think I’m judging again.) But I mean, it happens. It is what it is. No big deal. It’s just that my dad specifically hates it. I mean, my sister’s whole room even smells sometimes. My dad makes my mum go outside because of it. (He surely wouldn’t let her smoke in the house, but he doesn’t control her.) It smells up the car and stuff. (Great, everything I say sounds condescending to smokers!) Well, I mean, some people like the smell, but I personally don’t. It makes me sneeze and gives me a headache. But, I guess some people really enjoy it. (I should just finish talking now. She was starting to rustle around a look uncomfortable.)
Then I went for it. The red box. I was ready to bag it. Then I looked again . . . what I thought was the package of “Smoke Out” was indeed something very different. It was . . . drum roll please . . . . A douche. As I over-thought my reaction to a smoker, she was internalizing all my comments directed at someone who used a douche. All the comments started rolling back through my mind. I was almost in tears. I began to sweat. She looked VERY angry. That was it.
I got on the speaker “Nancy to the front, Nancy to the front.” I RAN to the back room, I think in tears by this point. Nancy came down “What is going on!?” she prodded. “Just go ring that woman up. She thinks I’m some kind of pervert.” Nancy ran to the front. I don’t remember what happened after that, but I know that whatever man cards I lost for my vest and feather duster, I had gained a surplus for my stupid comments surrounding a woman’s feminine product.
