After enough very subtle jabs at my place of employment, I’m sure you can all tell that I absolutely love the way the owner does business.
As a result of this love, I’ve become a vigilante.
Okay, probably more like Robin Hood than Batman, I just wish I was that muscular and well-trained in fighting.
(Okay, that is a pretty sexy Robin Hood. Thank you once again, BBC.)
So here’s the story.
In order to get our stock replenished at my store, we have to write up a list of stock we are low on, then turn it in to the main store who will then give it to the stock boys (it’s a very sexist organization. Only men can work in stock and whiskey shops, and only women in jewelry shops. But I digress). The stock boys then run around through various basements in various shops, gathering up what you need, then they bring it to your store for you.
But we turned in a stock list four days in a row without any response. Every time we asked the main shop or a stock boy about it, we were always told they’d never seen such a list, even if we talked to the person we had actually handed the list to.
But I’m the kind of girl that likes to make life happen, not wait for it to happen to me.
So this past weekend, I took the matter into my own hands.
I sauntered into the main shop, lifted the trap door effortlessly and descended into the cavern below. As my eyes adjusted to the dim, I breathed in the smell of dust and languishing death. As far as the eye could see, there were shelves and shelves full of cashmere, sulking in their neglect. I walked through them, the scarves shivering at my touch, begging to be taken with me, into the sun where some swindled tourist might pick them up and take them home. “Come. Come with me, friends.” I said to them.
I filled two boxes and ascended into the world above. As I clutched the boxes close to my chest and scurried back to my shop, I could sense the relief and joy from the scarves at the opportunity to be put to good use.
After folding and shelving scarves for a good half hour (at a rate of about two scarves per minute), I went back for another load. This time as I climbed the steps down tot he dank basement, an infamous stock boy was there waiting for me.
“How dare ye enter here!”
“I am not afraid. I will bring justice to these scarves and to the small shop where I dwell, which you have suffocated by means of indifference and neglect. I will not let you nor any of your men stand in my way!”
“Then you must prove that you can carry all the scarves and escape the treacherous closed trap door alone. No woman has done it.”
“I have. And I will do it again!”
And I did.
I rescued another twenty or so scarves, plus some tammy hats.
In my little shop, I stood back and admired the burgeoning cashmere shelves. But in the corner of my eye, I saw the sniffling of the lambswool shelves. “We’re empty, too. Please, help us.”
But lambswool was kept in another basement. One with a locked door and a code needed for entry.
I crept down the alley where the door to the lambswool is hidden away. I approached the door, running my fingers over the golden handle and those devious golden buttons which would either let me into the grotto below, or spell my certain death. Who can help me learn the secret of the buttons?
I knew immediately. The Spanish princess who dwelt alone in a small cave in the other corner of the alley.
I entered her abode. “Dear princess of Spain,” I implored, “please, teach me the ways of the golden buttons.”
The Spanish princess, despite her forsaken abode, has always maintained a most sanguine disposition, and would never hesitate to aid a justice-seeker. She beckoned for me to follow her.
“This is the secret,” and she drew a particular letter in the air. She then pushed the buttons which formed that very letter, and the door to the underground creaked open.
“Thank you, dear princess.” I spoke as I descended into the depths, closing the door upon the sky behind me.
I was confronted by a veritable labyrinth. At every turn, there was another distraction, which if followed would surely lead to a dead end. I followed the twists and turns, falling deeper into the earth, when I finally came upon it. The Room of the Lambswool.
The smell was thicker and the air scratchier than the cashmere cave. It was sadder, too.
“Take us! Please! We’ve been down here for years! Decades! No one wants us!” The lambswool screamed at me. But in my heart, I knew I could only take so much or the master would notice its absence.
I stuffed as much lambswool as I could into a bag and loaded up my other arm and dashed back through the labyrinth, vowing to return to rescue the other lambswool as often as I could.
Only a few hours after all my rescue efforts, a group of eight jolly Cubans entered the store. Every one of them bought something that I had rescued earlier that day. I knew I had done the right thing. For the greater good.
I didn’t choose the vigilante life. The vigilante life chose me.
JK! I totally chose the vigilante life, and I totally love it!
(P.S. I am aware that I’m not using vigilante by it’s proper definition. I’m being facetious.)