The year was 1987. I was in college and working at Sears for extra money. I was the “department coordinator” at night, which translates to “We need someone to be in charge, but we don’t want to pay you a manager’s salary.”

One of the girls in my department was a headbanger’s dream girl: rail-thin body topped by an oversized head crowned by an elaborate cloud of teased-up, sprayed-up hair. I believe she violated some laws of physics just by walking upright each day.

Now, this girl knew she was a commodity in demand. Perhaps her brief foray into the retail world taught her something about product lines and marketing segments and such. Whatever the case may be, she was shrewd in trading her services for goods.

Like some heavy metal girls, she was also nasal and whiny. One December evening, she was complaining to me about her boyfriend. “I want to break up with him,” she said, “But I want to get my Christmas present from him first.” She said this plaintively, as if she were the wounded party.

I listened in rapt attention, because this girl was so very different than me and I found her fascinating. Not pleasant or admirable, mind you, but fascinating.

Anyway, after cleaning up with gifts of clothes, jewelry and more on Christmas, she dumped the hapless young man in question. I believe he was given the heave-ho sometime between Christmas and New Year’s Eve.

But a guy doesn’t give up on a precious gal like her. Every night, as we closed up shop, a midnight blue sparkle-coat I-Rock Z was parked outside the store’s glass doors, blaring Poison’s “Every Rose Has It’s Thorns” from its opened T-tops. He would gaze mournfully at her as she walked to her car.

Some girls would’ve called the cops to report a stalker. But apparently he, like she, knew his audience well.

They were back together by Valentine’s Day. Just in time for her to get more presents.

It brings a tear to the eye, does it not?