The Cassie Chronicles - Episode 3

If pillow fluffing and exploding babies weren’t enough, Cassie’s got her hands full with unruly children and new projects from Skinny Bitch. What’s a girl to do?

Don’t Say No

Skinny Bitch wrapped up the Monday morning sales meeting by giving us our marching orders for the week. Another project.

“Because of recent robberies and for insurance purposes,” she said, “we need you to take pictures of everything in your model complex. The pictures should be arranged by model and room in a binder.” I felt the silent collective groan from my fellow sales counselors. We all wanted to scream in protest, but there’s no use in arguing with Skinny Bitch. Armed with our assignment, we left for our respective neighborhoods and the day’s adventures. I didn’t have to wait long for my excitement.

One of my recent buyers, Marcia Goodman, waited at the door with her three-year-old daughter, Morgan, a red-haired imp of a child who never failed to get into some kind of mischief. Marcia wanted to see paint samples, so I got out the swatches for her. Spreading them out on the credenza she studied each one, holding it up to the light, holding it down toward the floor, holding it straight out and cocking her head to get another angle on it, then putting it back in line with the other colors. She paid no attention to Morgan who had gotten bored and climbed up on the coffee table, jumping on it like a trampoline.

“No, no, Morgan,” I said, fearing the table’s imminent collapse.

Marcia glared at me. “We never say no to Morgan.”

“I’m afraid she’s going to get hurt,” I said. “How do you let her know not to do something dangerous?” Fueled by the attention, Morgan jumped higher and harder.

“Distraction,” Marcia said. “We emphasize the positive.”

“Okay,” I said. “Morgan, I positively want you to get down from the table.”

Morgan jumped again, giving me an evil grin. Marcia did nothing.

“Morgan,” I said in the happiest stern voice I could muster, “please get down now.”

Morgan started crying, but kept on jumping.

“Quit harassing my daughter,” Marcia said, just as the table cracked in two and Morgan crashed to the floor.

“Oh, my God,” Marcia screamed. “Look what you’ve done to my child. This place isn’t safe.”

Marcia scooped up her hysterical daughter and charged out the sales office door. But she had gone out the wrong door and was now trapped in the model complex by the wrought iron fencing. My own little evil grin surfaced as I watched Marcia realize her error. Too proud to come back through the office to access the parking lot, she tossed Morgan into the flowerbed on the other side of the fence and scrambled over it herself, legs flailing. Her designer tee shirt caught on the fence post. She tugged at the shirt and it tore free, leaving a remnant attached to the post. Brushing herself off, she picked her daughter up out of the begonias. Without glancing back at me, Marcia loaded Morgan into the black SUV, jumped into the driver’s seat and screeched out of the parking lot.

I had to think saying no would have been a whole lot easier on all of us, but who am I to judge? I have no kids of my own. In my job I am bound by the axiom that the customer is always right and should bite my tongue when I see kids misbehaving and parents doing nothing. I don’t always do what I should, though.

I set about picking up the pile of debris that used to be our coffee table. It was too far gone to salvage and would wind up in the dumpster. Guess I wouldn’t have to photograph that piece of furniture for Skinny Bitch. Score one for the bright side. On second thought, I got the camera and snapped a picture of the rubble for the record. You don’t say no to Skinny Bitch, after all.