I recently shopped at a home improvement store that’s on my “do not buy from” list. My experience at this store has been consistently bad, but their competitor didn’t have the needed items in stock. The project was time critical and I was desperate.

To hasten the task, I used a flawless strategy by downloading the store app.  This game plan allowed me to confirm availability, price, and exact location of the product. With a spring in my step, I marched confidently to aisle 38.

Their website listed 495 bags of tile mortar in stock. Of those, 494 were damaged, leeching contents onto the shelves and floor. As I rummaged through 50-pound bags of mortar, I became enveloped in a cloud of dust. My goal to locate one unopened bag seemed futile.

I continued pawing through damaged bags while the dust cloud grew in both size and intensity. Coughing violently, the powdery substance adhered to my hair and clothes. I was losing hope. Suddenly, through the fog-filled aisle an apparition appeared.

“May I help you, ma’am?”

I rubbed my eyes in disbelief. No one has offered help before. Surely, I was hallucinating. Through the heavenly glow of florescent light my hero came into view, his red cape fluttering in roiling clouds of mortar. He had a smile plastered on his face and a piece of duct tape across his chest that bore his name in indelible ink: Dusty.

Dusty arrived to save the day and began helping sift through mounds of damaged bags. He even offered a discount for my trouble. The savings was substantial and I beamed with delight.

Dusty directed me to retrieve a flatbed cart which could be found inside, outside, or in the garden center. “I’m honestly not sure where they are,” said Dusty, standing motionless with convincing authority.

After locating an unwieldy cart with 3 faulty wheels, I raced haphazardly back to the end zone, knocking over shelving units and bloodying the heels of several unhappy store patrons. Dusty offered support from afar. “Go wide!” he shouted from his stationary sideline position. Unappreciative of his strategic advice, I picked up speed, forcefully presenting him with the cumbersome cart.

Dusty remained immobile as he watched me heave 250-pounds of mortar onto the rickety cart while continuing to wow me with his coaching skills. “Lift with your legs, not with your back!”

Dusty was friendly, helpful, kind, and seemed genuinely concerned about my physical well-being. I mentioned that offering help was an anomaly in this big box store. “Employees used to run from anyone needing assistance,” I stated matter-of-factly.

“Oh, we don’t do that anymore,” said Dusty proudly. “By the way,” he said, handing me a card while pointing to his homemade name tag, “If you could give me a great review, I’d appreciate it!”

With added weight, the flatbed cart was even more unmanageable. By the time I reached checkout, I was sweating profusely. An impassive young woman stood in a fixed position at the register, rolling her eyes as she implored me to move the cart closer. She scanned the bags and blandly asked if I found everything I was looking for.

“My experience was exactly as anticipated,” I replied through clenched teeth.

By her outgoing personality and plastic tag emblazoned with her name, I surmise that Amanda-Rae is a permanent employee. “Here’s a card,” she said dryly. “How’d I do? I’d appreciate a great review.”

As I hoisted the 50-pound bags into the back of my truck, an employee collecting shopping carts stopped to watch. “Lift with your legs, not with your back!” he yelled from a safe distance. I responded in kind with an apropos one-finger wave.

Concluding my painful 2-hour excursion, I knew I would never shop here again. Looking skyward, I stood in the middle of the parking lot and with reddened face, yelled at no one in particular.

“How’d I do! How would you rate me as a customer! Can I get an Atta Boy!”