The Jersey Devil stopped by my lingerie boutique this morning. He smiled at me, polite, as his talons clicked through the sales bin to snap up all the silk thongs with pink rosettes in the back.

“Can I help you find anything?” I asked.

I expected him to decline and tell me that he was just browsing. Instead, he said, “Yes, please. Do you have any lace nightgowns in red? Size small.”

I said that we did and led the way to the sleepwear section. “Are you shopping for a special occasion?” I asked. 

“I’m shopping for my girlfriend,” he said. “It’s our one-year anniversary this Friday. We met in the woods on Arbor Day. Cliché, I know.”

“Not at all,” I said. “It’s very sweet.”

I am generally quite careful when the topic of romance arises with a stranger, or even a mere acquaintance. When someone shares information regarding their relationship, at a certain point they will expect me to return in kind. But not all relationships are safe to converse about in my small rural town. A slip of an unexpected pronoun might only cost me my sale, if I am lucky. The cost might be paid in bruises and broken bones, should the person have particularly strong feelings against those who build beyond the framework of what they can believe makes a family. It’s a delicate area to traverse, particularly in a lingerie store where romance is for sale alongside the garters.

The Jersey Devil seemed courteous, however, and since chatting with a receptive customer leads to larger sales, I added, “Do you have any big plans?”

“Oh, yes. We’re spending the weekend at my vacation home in Wharton State Forest.” His left horn pushed the nightgowns up the rack, one at a time on their plastic hangers. “I’ve brought a leg of lamb to roast for dinner, Julia Childs’ recipe. And a bottle of cherry liqueur for nightcaps by the bonfire.”

“That sounds lovely,” I said. “Very cozy and romantic.”

“I hope so.” He stopped at a red lace nightgown with satin straps, size small. “I’ve done my best to spruce up the place. Cleared out all the bones and ordered a new comforter. It was free shipping, but they added an extra day for off-grid delivery. I hope it arrives in time.”

The Jersey Devil seemed pleased with the red lace nightgown. He plucked it from the rack with his tail, arched high off the ground so the hem was not trampled under a stray hoof as we went to the counter for checkout. I rang up the nightgown and thongs and a tin of mints from the register display. I wrapped each item in pink and white tissue paper, secured with a piece of cellophane tape and a black curled ribbon.

One of the thongs filled my hand with five times as much fabric as the others. I shook it out and checked the tag.

“This one is not a small,” I told him. I suspected he knew that, but in case I was wrong, I added, “If you grabbed it by mistake, I can run over to the bin and exchange it to match the others.” 

“That’s not necessary,” he said, looking awfully slight for someone over seven feet tall. “It wasn’t a mistake.”

“That’s perfectly fine. I’m so sorry that we don’t carry a wider range of sizes in the store, but our website options are much more size inclusive. If this one is not the correct fit, you can exchange it via post for a larger size, or a more comfortable style.”

I kept my tone pleasant with no hint of judgement. Every customer with a secret thinks that they are being clever about hiding it. The burly gentlemen who hold our loosest robes against their shoulders before purchasing them for the missus, the people who sidestep their partner’s pronouns, the ladies who loudly proclaim they are shopping for themselves yet choose items that are completely out of touch with their style and request a gift receipt.

I am a professional, and do not let their inner turmoil dissuade me from my mission of ensuring that each customer leaves feeling satisfied. I understand their hesitancy to confide. I feel the same way when I am in unfamiliar stores. Small towns mean fractured communities for customers like us. We show solidarity when we can, when it is safe, when we will not be seen by anyone who is not us.

Once each item is wrapped, I pack them inside one of our medium-size bags, with the largest item on top to keep the smaller items safely tucked inside during transport. 

“Your total is two hundred and twenty-six dollars and fifty cents,” I said. 

“Do you accept payment in trinkets?” The Jersey Devil reached between the feathers of his left wing, pulled out a clawful of jewelry—necklace strands and cameo pendants and mood rings and a wristwatch with a chain-link band—and dropped the items on the counter in a neat little heap. There were many beautiful pieces, some old and clearly valuable, some cheap but charming. There were spots of blood on a few pieces.

“Unfortunately, we only accept cash, credit, or gift certificates,” I said. “But you can apply for a store credit card. If you are approved, you can start using it immediately.”

I set an application sheet on the counter next to the trinkets. “I do have to warn you, the interest rate is thirty-five percent.”

“That’s outrageous!” he said as he filled out the application. “But it’s not a problem. I always pay my debts.” 

The application was approved, and the payment went through without incident. The Jersey Devil thanked me for my help, clamped the handles of the pink and black striped bag in one taloned hand, took flight and departed through the skylight. I waved as his wingspan shrunk to a spot against the sun, then disappeared. 

It was nice to have a normal customer to break up the day. The next person that came in was a lady who demanded a cash refund for a pair of sweatpants from a department store I’d never heard of and refused all explanations as to why this would not be possible. I wound up offering her a twenty-dollar store credit, which she accepted. Sometimes you have to compromise, particularly with weird customers. It’s all part of the job.