Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes

Hola amigos. What’s the lowdown? I know it’s been a long time since I rapped at ya, but I’ve been letting the crap pile up on me and this was the last thing on my mind. Moving always does that to me.

Now I work in a different store and it’s definitely not like The First Store. First of all, it’s a classier joint but fuck me if everyone’s story is worse. Almost everyone I’ve talked to so far is even more depressing. Summer job turned to full-time for the past ten years. Working through a divorce. Got an MBA but still working here. What the hell?

Secondly, I have less responsibilities. It’s a big store so all the roles get divided up. This means there’s less to do on my part which makes me feel less in control of my life. Maybe I am a control-hungry freak. Floor still looks like shit though, since the “recovery crews” only work in the morning. And then management still wants us to clean up although we don’t have folding boards or anything.

In a weird way I miss my old job, even though I like my new city. Must. Find. Non-retail. Job.

Short on cool

I’m standing near the middle of The Store, zoning out when a customer walks in. He’s not actually a customer, though. It’s one of the Massage Guys.

Outside the Store there are quite a few open spaces occupied by kiosk venders selling what essentially is pointless shit. Manicure sets, fake designer bags, cell phone covers. You know the type.

One such is a massage station with three guys wearing the same blue polo shirt everyday. When they’ve got no customers they like to walk into The Store, look around, mess up the displays, and walk right back out, which ruins our conversion.* Sometimes they ask how much so-and-so is but never buy anything. I think they’re waiting for the day everything is under ten dollars or something.

Knowing what I know, I nod briefly and continue to zone out. But this time, Massage Guy walks over.

“I need a pair of jeans,” he says.

Oh, shit.
“Right away,” I say and take him straight to the sales rack. Having worked in retail hell long enough, I guess his size all right and pull out a pair of jeans. 34 inch waist, 30 inch inseam. We’re about the same height, so the inseam will probably be too short for him. I hand him the jeans anyway and put him in a fitting room.

I check on him in a few minutes. “How are those jeans, sir?”

He opens the door. The jeans seem to fit round the waist but are definitely too short by two inches. “They fit OK,” he says.

“They look a little short,” I suggest, knowing we don’t have anymore sales jeans in longer inseams. Actually, all we have left are 34″ and 38″ waists. And for some reason they all have a 30 inch inseam. What the fuck?

“No, these are fine,” he says while looking down at the jeans. Then he goes back into the changing room. When he steps out he hands me the jeans.

“OK?” I ask.

“OK.” he replies.

Holy shit, is he going to buy something today?

I hear footsteps behind me. It’s another Massage Guy. He says something in Chinese to Massage Guy #1 and points back outside. Massage Guy #1 looks at me. His face is guilty.

“Sorry I have to go,” he mutters.

The both of them exit the store. There goes the day’s conversion.

*People who buy something/People who come in = Conversion.

Short skirts, long looks

Business is slow. Anthony, another retail slave and I are standing by the entrance, people watching. People watching is a great way to pass the time. They become fodder for our boredom-enchanced cruelty.

“Whoa, check out the girl in green.” Anthony exclaims.

My eyes wander over to a pair of women near the escalator. They couldn’t be more than sixteen, seventeen. The one clad in green wears a denim skirt cut off so short I nearly catch a glimpse of what’s underneath.

“I hope she doesn’t drop anything,” I say chivalrously.

We look on in silence for a little longer. I hope no one catches us staring.

The girls walk to the escalator finally, moving their way up to the second floor. I turn my head around to see if we missed any customers. As I return my gaze I see Anthony lift his chin in acknowledgement at the pair.

“Holy shit!” I say. “They caught you looking!”

“They caught us looking,” he corrects.

I try not to look too embarassed. But not too proud either; I don’t want to look like a lecherous perv. We continue to watch them until they reach the top of the escalator and disappear from our view. For a minute neither of us say anything. Then Anthony speaks up.

“Her face was wrecked, though.” he says thoughtfully.

Lycanthopy, retail-style

Although I work in the middle of a city that prides itself on being a model town, people suddenly morph from model citizen to outright asshole when they step into a restaurant or a store of any kind. I read The Store’s manual on Providing Good Customer Service but they never mentioned this change in behavior.It’s like werewolves, except that it’s a sales associate instead of a moon that causes this change. Instead of long pointy fangs I just get a view of rather shoddy personal dental hygeine. And of course, the mismatched and unsightly outfits don’t morph into fur. That said, the attitude is just the same: petty, angry, and full of spittle.

Today I encountered one such she-wolf. Overly-tanned with sunspots to show off year of sun damage, she is clad in a loose-knit pastel top, tasteless gold jewelry, and black shorts. Her hair is cut short and fluffed/permed in a loose white-woman afro. Yuppy Uniform of the Suburbs. She walks in carrying a bag with The Store’s logo. A return, how nice.

“Hello, welcome to The Store,” says I. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

She walks to the counter and unloads her bag unceremoniously. “Retail Slave, I need to return this.”

“Would you like to take a look around the store first?” I suggest, according to Store Protocol.

A look of irritation passes across her. “NO.”

I process her return. Once I get to the end, I’ll need her credit card in order to return the charges. We have old-ass computer systems. I take a look at the reciept again. “Ma’am, I’ll need your Visa.”

“Well, I don’t have it.” she replies. “It belongs to my daughter.”

“Would you like to get store credit or wait until you can get the card from her?” I say, giving her an option. She looks hard at me again.

“It’s a debit card. Can’t I get cash back?”

Uhh, what the hell?

“I’m afraid not, ma’am.”

She-wolf suddenly rears up. “What do you mean, NO?”

She says “you” as if I am an earthworm or some other creature unworthy of her time. Me saying no to her is offensive from a person of my stature. Come to think of it, a lot of this probably has to do with a Yuppy upbringing and a life-long sense of entitlement. Saying no to a Yuppy is like asking for a fistfight.

“Company policy, ma’am.”

“My daughter’s out of state right now for summer school.”

Did you want me to run right over and pick her up?

“There’s nothing I can do, m’am.”

“What if I use my Store credit card?” she says slyly.

“Sorry ma’am,” I reply. “I can either give you store credit or you can wait until your daughter comes back with her card.”

I’m letting her down gently but she takes no notice. With a sweep of a flabby arm she sweeps the clothes back into the bag.

“Ridiculous,” she shrieks. “Ridiculous.”

She walks away briskly. Or rather, as briskly as she can.

“Have a nice day,” I say to her quivering back.

Now that school is out for the summer, I see a lot of these same she-wolves with their cubs in tow. I wonder what sorts of lessons they’re passing on in interpersonal skills.