Having worked at a 7-Eleven store for two years, I thought I had become successful at what our manager calls "customer relations." I firmly believed that a friendly smile and an automatic "sir," "ma'am" and "thank you" would see me through any situation that might arise from soothing impatient or unpleasant people to apologizing for giving out the wrong change. But the other night an old woman shattered my belief that a glib response could smooth over the rough spots of dealing with other human beings.

The moment she entered, the woman presented a sharp contrast to our shiny store with its bright lighting and neatly arranged shelves. Walking as if each step were painful, she slowly pushed open the glass door and hobbleddown the nearest aisle. She coughed dryly, wheezingwith each breath. On a forty-degree night, she was wearing only a faded printdress, a thin sweater too small to button, and black slippers with the backs cut out to expose calloused heels.There were no stockings or socks on her blue-veinedlegs.

After strolling around the store for several minutes, the old woman stopped in front of the rows of canned vegetables. She picked up a can of com and stared with a strange intensity at the label. At that point, I decided to be a good, polite employee and asked her if she needed help. As I stood close to her, my smile became harder to maintain; her red-rimmedeyes were partially closed by yellowish crusts; her hands were covered with layer upon layer of grime，and the stale smell of sweat rose in a thick vaporous cloud from clothes.