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Platform on sun and daylight control, shutters, patio covers and closures
Anyone who has ever worked in a store knows the love-hate relationship you can have with customers. You have nice customers, easy customers, nasty customers and nasty customers who always come in three minutes before closing time. Customers like Mrs. Van Tuitewaal.
We are still writing the nineties, when I worked as an awning salesman in that little town under the smoke of Arnhem. Friday evening was our shopping night. The store was then open until eight o'clock, and since no health and safety rules were applied, we worked from eight in the morning until eight at night. The door stayed open all day, which meant that during the busy summer season, nine times out of ten you could put your lunch on your stomach. You then eagerly looked forward to the moment when the clock struck eight....
Unfortunately, I had been plagued for weeks by a "three-for-eight" visit from Mrs. Van Tuitewaal, who gratefully took advantage of our company policy: "We are open until the last customer has left. Such was the case on a Friday evening in August. The showroom had already been tidied up and all the sample books were neatly back in place. With key in hand, I was waiting at the door. The countdown had only just begun when I saw Mrs. Van Tuitewaal arrive. Gesturing for me not to close the door, she sprinted into the porch. In my mind, I cursed and wished the presenter of the "Love Your Client as You Love Yourself" workshop all sorts of nasty things. With a jaunty swing, I flung open the door and welcomed her. "Good evening Mrs. Van Tuitewaal, glad you could make it after all! Coffee?"
Of course, I knew she only consumed tea, but it was just nice to invariably offer our "Viezematic" coffee, the powder of which seemed to come from marl caves. "I went over all the quotes you made with my husband and we came to the conclusion that we are going for blinds. If I get out of color with you today, I will place the order immediately," she spoke afterward, still panting.
That was nice. It alleviated the suffering of the overtime and rattling stomach. She already knew the brand, too. To a major Dutch manufacturer - "not the cheapest, not the most expensive, but everything coordinated by color" - the honor of producing blinds for the Van Tuitewaal couple's semi-detached house in a leafy street in Velp, Gelderland.
The sample books of the brand in question did not lie. They were large, extremely thick and particularly unwieldy. Ring binders with obesity. With a thud, I deposited the thick blind book in front of her. "Could you open the book for a moment, Mr. Mol? I want to take the sample cards outside for a moment to hold them up to the light." The four huge iron brackets that held the contents together had to be opened. I pulled my fists white on the middle brackets, against the enormous spring force. With a bang, the ring binder jumped open and the sheets could be taken out. After fifteen minutes of walking up and down with sample cards, there was finally the redeeming word: it had to be burgundy. By now I had already filled out the complete order form and could put the irrelevant sample sheets back in the ring binder in order. Except for the one sheet whose sample number I still had to copy.
"Fine, that's settled then. Then you can just sign here," I spoke with relief and handed Mrs. Van Tuitewaal the voucher and a ballpoint pen. Reluctantly a scrawl came under the receipt. "No doubt?", I asked again. "No, I think this must really be him," she spoke, clearly still doubting. "Nothing to do with it," I thought. "That signature is there and I'm going to have a nice dinner in a minute." I added the sheet with the red samples to the rest and was ready to do what I always did with the thick book: by hitting both halves of the ring binder hard with two hands, I closed the inside with a resounding bang. The bang that gave was a joy to hear every time.
Just at the moment when both my hands touched the metal, Mrs. Van Tuitewaal tried to prevent the closing because she had seen a different color after all. She stuck her right hand precisely into the gap between the brackets that would close with great force a nanosecond later, like a freshly oiled bear trap in Alaska. What followed was a chilling screech as her index finger was pierced. Blood splattered around (a waste of the samples, the owner of the case thought the next day). The thick book and the fragile little hand had entered into a marriage. A piercing avant la lettre....
With sweat on my forehead and squeaking ears from my victim's screams, I managed to get the ring binder open again. My excuses were unnecessary. "Quick, a first-aid kit!" she demanded. Alas, everyone had already left and the only first aid kit in the store was under lock and key in the executive office. With lead in my shoes, I had to watch as the brand new order paper was deployed to stem the bleeding. With her finger wrapped in this paper that was so valuable to me, Mrs. Van Tuitewaal bade me farewell. At the door I called after her: "Good luck and apologies again! Shall we call tomorrow about the order then?"
Dear Mrs. Van Tuitewaal, should you read this, I hope your scar is not too bad and that you have succeeded elsewhere for your blinds. Without further bloodshed.
