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Joanne Brokaw

freelance writer s columnist

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This Life

A humorous look at life, faith, and everything in between

You’ve Been Shopped!

My sister has the greatest job in the world: she’s a member of the Mystery Shopping Police. Usually, I wouldn’t be able to talk about this without having to kill you afterwards for fear of blowing her cover, but since she lives in another state, I think we’re safe. But be warned: if you let the cat out of the bag, she’s coming after you with a price sticker gun.

Several times a day, my sister goes into stores, restaurants, gas stations, banks, and other businesses to make a purchase or return an item, have a meal, or do some other typical transaction. Oh, she looks like a normal customer, with her coupons and shopping list, but she’s really on assignment from the Mystery Shopping Police. After she leaves the store, she immediately reports her findings to Headquarters, and within a week you know whether or not you’ve passed inspection.

It’s a power I’d like to have when I’m on the receiving end of particularly poor service. Say, when I’m standing at the grocery check-out, and my cashier is busy talking to the cashier in the next line about her impending date with the captain of the football team. She’s discussing lipstick flavors and ignoring the fact that she’s putting the gallon of milk on top of the loaf of bread. I’d love to be able to make a citizen’s shopping arrest, or at least write a citation for rude and ignorant customer service.

Recently, we went to a popular chicken place for take out. We waited in a long line to place our order, and then stood with the other customers in a long line waiting for our food. Order after order came up, for people who were ahead of us in line, and then people who had been behind us in line. After what seemed like hours, the cashier said, “You’re waiting for the Cajun popcorn shrimp, right?”

“Yes,” my husband said. “How much longer is it going to be?”

“It takes about three minutes to cook,” the girl said tensely, arching her eyebrow at him.

“It’s been SEVENTEEN minutes since you took our order,” I said, pointing to the clock.

“Well, there are other customers ahead of you,” she snapped, and stomped off to the back room.

Right then, I wished that I had a Shopping Police badge. I would have whipped it out, held it high for all of the other customers to see, and shouted, “Hold it right there, missy.”

She’d see the badge and shake in her rubber-soled, regulation fast-food-chain sneakers. Oh, I’ll bet then she’d get my popcorn shrimp in three minutes or less.

“It doesn’t work that way,” my sister explained to me this morning. “You have to remain anonymous. That way, you get a realistic picture of their service.”

But I don’t want a realistic picture of their service. I want good service.

In the end, I don’t suppose I would make a good Shopping Police Officer. I’d probably let the power go to my head and go around town demanding that waiters pay attention to me, and that cashiers charge me the right amount for my groceries. I’d insist that stock clerks know which aisle the marshmallows are in, and that restaurants train their servers not to play with their hair and then touch my silverware.

But I guess I’ll have to rely on my sister to keep the stores safe for shoppers like me. Thank goodness she can keep a secret.