I managed a ski shop awhile back. It was a fun, laid back, bro-talking industry – for a guy. But for a woman, it was an often sexist fight for recognition that wasn’t based on how tight my clothes were. Our mostly male customers seemed surprised I was knowledgeable about the product, or they overlooked me completely, searching for a guy to help them. But I was used to it and I was tough; the “customer is always right” rule didn’t apply in a sport that can easily result in broken bones.

My son, Eric, was in charge of our rental shop. A high school drop-out, he’d moved away from home early, and I worried about him. He was a gentle, artsy kid with a physical disability that left him limping and unable to ski anymore. I gave him a job so I could watch over him. He was a hard worker and hard to rile. The busy rental shop was a good place for him.

No one would have known he wasn’t just another one of the shop boys – except he refused to call me anything but Mom. He said I’d earned it and he wasn’t giving it up, even at work.  It wasn’t long before all the boys switched to calling me Mom. It was a title that carried more authority with them than “boss”, and they treated me with the respect- and love -the title merited.

Real skiing ends in the Pacific Northwest around the end of March, so we closed up shop in early May. Summers were spent tuning gear and calling customers who were a month or more late returning their rentals.  One sunny June day I looked up from counting a large pile of ski boots to see an SUV worth double my yearly income pulling into the lot. The driver didn’t seem to notice the large “closed for the season” sign on the front door. From the angry slam of the car door, I was guessing this guy had just gotten my third phone message saying I was charging in full instead of the $25 late fee if I didn’t get the equipment that day.

Fumbling with an armload of skis, the man reached for the locked door, cursing as he pulled at the handle to no avail. Eric was already limping slowly to the door and he unlocked it with a smile that dissolved as soon as the man barked, “Why are you closed? I need to return my kid’s gear!”

He sounded like someone that was going to need the Manager, but I generally let the boys figure it out as far as they could. They needed to gain confidence that they could handle aggressive customers politely, and Eric was one of the best at it. In an attempt to placate the guy with cool bro’ ski shop attitude, Eric ignored the aggression and replied in an easy tone, “Hey man! Bring your stuff in – we close up for the summer so we can tune for next year.  You’re lucky you caught us!” Despite Eric’s obvious limp, the man shoved his awkward load into Eric’s arms and turned to leave.

Eric’s voice remained cheerful, though strained, over the mess of poles stabbing at the air and catawampus skis.  “Okay, hang on. Let me get your paperwork and we can take care of the late fees at the register…” The man spun around, red faced. Tearing off his sunglasses and throwing his keys on the floor, he leaned in, “I am not paying a goddamn late fee!”

Eric was silent as he shuffled to the counter and set the gear on the floor. The tightly clenched muscles in his jaw betrayed his annoyance as he searched through the paperwork slowly. This wasn’t a new scenario, and when he replied, his voice had its friendly banter. He placed the paperwork before the man. “Sir, you have signed this form in three places stating that you understood when the items were due and that there would be a $25 late fee assessed after a two week grace period.  We sent you an email and called twice. We have your credit card number on file and can charge the fee to that. But, it can easily be waived if you prepay for next year.” He smiled without warmth, bracing himself against the counter for what experience had proved would come next.

The man reached across the counter and crumpled the paperwork, throwing it at my son.  I jumped up, ready to intervene, but Eric’s eyes hadn’t flicked towards me asking for help.

“I ain’t payin’ no goddamn late fee! You can stick your paperwork up your ass! Who do you think you are you little shit, tellin’ me what I have to do? If you charge me, you’re gonna hear from my lawyer!  Where’s your manager?  I want to talk to the goddamn manager!” He slammed his fist on the counter.

I was steps behind him. Angry customers were one thing, but abusing any of my staff was completely unacceptable. Eric’s eyes caught mine over the man’s shoulders, and he smiled.

Eric looked the man in the eye while he said, “MOM, this man asked to see you.” 

At the word Mom, the man’s back when rigid. He turned around slowly to face me – a small, young looking  woman with her arms crossed against her chest.  “Is there a problem, Sir?”  I drawled coolly, knowing the man’s bluster was gone now that he worried he’d pissed off some kid’s mother. Sure enough, he wiped the spittle off his lips and picked his keys up off ground. “Sorry ma’am. I guess you have a card on file?  I’ll be going now.”  He skittered out the door, throwing himself into the safety of his SUV and drove off.

Being Manager is one thing, but nothing beats the power of Mom.