Mary And The Giant

"Come along," Mary Anne had urged him, timid at the idea of returning to the store alone. "Please, Paul. As a favor to me."

He had raised an eyebrow. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing."

"You scared?"

"Sure I'm scared. It's a new job; it's the first day."

"What do you know about this character?"

Evasively, she had said; "I met him once. He's an older man."

Tossing down his paperbacked Western, Paul Nitz had climbed to his feet. "Okay, I'll go along and chaperone you." He clapped her warmly on the back. "I'll even challenge him to a duel-just give me the nod."

"What are you doing?" Schilling asked, watching her fingers fly as she counted the bills.

"Seeing what we need from the bank."

When she had completed her list, Schilling showed her the miniature safe by the night-light. "I go to the bank once a week. Otherwise I draw from this."

"You should have told me." Finishing with the money, she went to get the broom. "I'm going to clean up this place," she informed him. "It really needs it ... how long has it been since you swept out?"

Disconcerted, Schilling went on sorting records. Later he stepped into the back office and plugged in his Silex coffeemaker. In the first listening booth Mary's friend had barricaded himself behind his records; he stared blankly out.

Here was a girl, Schilling reflected, who, on her first day at work, had borrowed money from her employer, had set her own moment of appearance, and, when she finally appeared, had brought along a friend prepared to spend all day listening to the store's records. And now, instead of waiting dutifully for instructions, she was announcing her own tasks.

"Why don't you move the counter back?" Mary Anne said as he appeared with the coffee.

"Why?" He began filling two cups.

"So you can get directly to the window." She gave the counter a fretful swat. "It blocks the way."

"Miss Reynolds," Schilling said, realizing that he was entering a pattern that must have included all her employers, "put down your broom and come over here. I want to talk to you."

She smiled at him, a quick flash of her very small lips. "Wait until I'm finished," she said, and disappeared out the front door with the dustpan. When she returned she found a dust cloth and began going over the surface of the counter.

Nettled, Schilling sipped his afternoon coffee. "I think you should learn how my inventory is handled and what I expect in customer relationships. I'm trying out something new of my own; I want a personal, more individual arrangement. We should know every customer by name, and we should learn to use those names as soon as they set foot inside the store."

Mary Anne nodded as she dusted.

"When the customer asks for something, you've got to be able to respond with information, not a slack-jawed stare. Suppose I come in here and say to you: 'I heard a Bach piano concerto played on the violin. What is it?' Could you do anything with that?"

"Of course not," Mary Anne answered.

"Well," he conceded, "I don't really expect you to. That's my job. But you've got to learn enough to handle the regular classical buyer. You'll have to know how to meet requests for the standard symphonic works. Suppose somebody comes in and asks you for a good Dvorak symphony. You better be sure how many he wrote, which are the best recordings, and what we have in stock. And you've got to know Smetana and Brahms and Suk and Mahler and all the other composers a buyer of Dvorak might enjoy."

"That's what Nitz is doing," Mary Anne said.

"Nitz? What's that?"

"Paul Nitz, in the booth. He never heard any of that serious music before."

"My Point," Schilling said sharply, "is that whenever a buyer is introduced to a new field by a salesperson, the buyer becomes dependent on that salesperson. That means you have a responsibility not to sell the buyer short by simply pushing merchandise on him for the sake of getting rid of it. That's where this business becomes an art with standards. We're not selling gum or soda pop-we're selling, to some people at least, elements that make up a way of life."

"What's the name of that?" Mary Anne asked. "That music he's playing."

"What are you talking about?" The girl was paying no attention to him. "Miss Reynolds," he said, "have you heard anything I've said?"

"Of course I have," she answered, industriously dusting. "You said I have to know what it is we're selling. But I can't learn that overnight ... you're going to have to help me."

"Do you want to find out what's on these records? Do you care?"

"Yes, I care."

"Listen to what your friend is playing." The rattle of a Chavez percussion experiment was audible. "Can you honestly tell me you like that? Damn it," he protested, "stop that dusting. You don't like that kind of music; it doesn't mean anything to you."

"It's terrible," Mary Anne agreed.

In despair, Schilling said: "Then what can I do with you? I can't make you like it."

She scrutinized him shrewdly. "Do you like it?"

"No," he admitted. "I don't care for experiments in pure sound."

"What do you like, then?"