70 Staples – Not broken. Rebuilt.

Where Chaos is State of the Art

Back in the glorious retail frontier, when home computers were still mysterious beige boxes that arrived with manuals thicker than the Old Testament, I was an operations manager at Circuit City in Tampa.

This was during the age when owning a home computer made you either an early adopter, a wealthy person, or someone with enough disposable income to buy a machine that would eventually freeze up while trying to print “Happy Birthday” banners in dot matrix font.

Our computer department was called SOHO, which stood for Small Office/Home Office. To me, it stood for “Somebody’s Over Here Having Opinions,” because everybody who bought a computer in those days had very strong opinions and absolutely no idea what they were doing.

Among our finest employees was Michael, one of the top salesmen in the store, top salesman of the quarter, multiple times over. He could sell computers, printers, monitors, cables, and probably a toaster oven if you put it on the right endcap.

There was just one detail that made Michael especially remarkable:

Michael was almost completely deaf.

Now, before you assume this slowed him down, let me assure you, it did not. That man could read lips like it was an Olympic event. He was sharp, fast, and better with customers than half the people blessed with perfect hearing and no personality. He also had very affected speech, as you can imagine. Having a dialogue with him was challenging, to say the least, but he was more than up for the undertaking.

One night I was stationed near the front counter, doing what operations managers do best: looking busy and keeping one eye on the registers and the other on the possibility of attractive male customers entering the building. I was newly single. Don’t judge.

Right on cue, a very handsome, well-dressed businessman walked in carrying a printer.

Naturally, I sprang into action.

Not because I was the picture of managerial excellence, although I certainly was. But because the man was cute, and I was suddenly seized by an overwhelming commitment to customer service.

He approached the counter, printer in hand, and explained that he’d bought it from Michael a few days earlier. It wasn’t working properly, and he was hoping Michael might be available to help.

I said, “Absolutely,” in the tone of a woman who had no intention of letting another employee handle this interaction while Cute Businessman remained within a 20-foot radius.

So, I headed over to SOHO, found Michael, and physically brought him back up front, since paging him would’ve been about as effective as whispering into a ceiling fan.

Michael greeted the customer, took the printer cord, and knelt down behind the counter to plug it in so he could troubleshoot the issue.

Then, as if touched by the hand of God or terrified into cooperation by the mere presence of a competent salesman, the printer sprang to life.

It worked. Just like that.

Michael, however, was still down on his knees under the counter and had no idea the printer had been resurrected.

The businessman, delighted, said, “Oh! He fixed it!”

I nudged Michael with my knee so he’d know the customer was talking.

Michael stood up, and the man pointed at the printer and said, “You fixed it. Thank you.”

Michael, in the distinct and earnest voice of someone who doesn’t hear normally but has learned to speak anyway, replied, “You’re welcome.”

So far, this was shaping up to be one of those wholesome little customer service moments corporations like to put in training videos.

Then came the question.

As Michael bent back down to unplug the printer, the businessman looked at me and asked, “What’s this slit in the back of the printer for?”

Now, I was an operations manager, which meant I knew a lot about cash drawers, scheduling, inventory control, and human foolishness.

What I did not know was what every mysterious opening in the rear end of a 1990s printer was designed for. So I nudged Michael again with my knee. He stood up.

The businessman, trying to be helpful, slowly repeated the question so Michael could read his lips.

“What is this slit in the back of the printer for?”

Michael stared at him with mild confusion, then answered in a matter-of-fact tone:

“Huffalumps.”

The businessman blinked. “What?”

Michael, now slightly annoyed at having to repeat himself, said it again.

“Huffalumps.”

Then, for emphasis, because apparently clarity was important to him, and his customer clearly had a learning disability, he added:

“You know… huffalumps.”

And that is the moment the Lord took hold of my last thread of self-control and snapped it like cheap pantyhose.

Because I knew exactly what Michael meant.

He meant envelopes. That slot was for envelopes. 

But what came out of his mouth was not even in the same zip code as “envelopes.” What came out of his mouth was a word that sounded like a rejected Dr. Seuss woodland creature.

“He meant ENVELOPES!”, I screamed at the man, as I dropped to my knees laughing. Not a graceful chuckle. Not a polite little snort. I mean full-body collapse.

The businessman looked from Michael to me as if he had accidentally wandered into a hostage situation. He gathered up his cord and his now-miraculously-functioning printer and backed out of the store with the brisk determination of a man who no longer wished to know anything else about office equipment.

Meanwhile, I was on the floor, laughing so hard I could no longer be trusted to remain upright.

Michael turned and looked at me.

“What?” he asked.

I couldn’t answer.

I staggered back to my office, tears and mascara pouring down my face, trying to breathe and failing at it.

Michael followed me, now genuinely confused.

Still laughing, I grabbed a piece of paper and wrote in big letters:

H-U-F-F-A-L-U-M-P-S!!

Then I wrote:

This is how you said “envelopes.”

I explained that this, this word, this masterpiece, this accidental contribution to the English language, was what the customer had heard.

Michael read it.

His face turned ten shades of red.

He shook his head, turned around, walked out, and sold two more computers that night. With the full extended warranty.

And I laughed for another hour.

To this day, I cannot hear the word “envelopes” without thinking of that printer, that poor businessman, and Michael confidently saying “huffalumps” like it ought to be printed in the manual.

Some workplace memories are about leadership.
Some are about teamwork.
Some are about perseverance, grit, and dedication.

And some are about trying not to die behind a Circuit City counter because a deaf salesman accidentally invented a new word for office supplies.