Tale or Retail?

The Thunder Rolls

2005-12-12T19:58:00.000-05:00

First of all, I want to apologize to the four of you who accidentally stumble upon this humble web-log. Let's face it: we all hate to inadvertently link to a website, only to find that it hasn't been updated in weeks. How rude.

Anyhow, I could go into all of the excuses that come along with this time of year in order to explain my absence in complaintitude. I shall spare you, compadres of the interweb.

I do want to talk a bit about the "reason for the season"...and I'm not talking about a certain carpenter's wife and her bastard son. The "reason for the season" is, in fact, based upon the benjamins, buh-rutha. Besides, you all don't need to know about the lady in the apartment across from me and her baby daddy issues. Oh snap!

Years ago, December meant Christmas and Hanukkah celebrations. Maybe it is just because we were younger and more eager to decorate and celebrate, but I think that a lot of people my age (23, as of publication time) feel that it isn't based around celebrating anything at all with your family. A lot of that is pretty obviously based around businesses focusing all of their marketing upon our age bracket.

In fact, knowing that our generation has grown up in a very P.C. atmosphere, several big companies have decided on the blanket term "Holidays" to better sell things. When Wal-Mart decided to use the term "Happy Holidays," I was personally shocked. Not that I care...quite the opposite. But it was still hard to see Garth Brooks on the TV saying "Happy Holidays!" to his children while hugging them. How fake is that?

Where did this come from? How deep does this go, Wal-Mart? I have a theory that it goes back to last year. Fo sho.

It was around the third week of December, and that usually means Christmas gifts for the associates at my store. Years past, gifts were awful. That was nothing, though, because every year was the same. Your choice: a mug with cocoa powder in it or a plastic tub of peppermints? Nothing fancy. In fact, I would rather have received a "Costanza Gift" in place of the 'mints. Give me a fake donation in my name to the Fat Kid Funk Kamp Fund. Anything.

2004 was a real treat, though.

That year, there was a lottery to decide who received certain gifts. There were problems from the start, though. Half of the associates weren't even listed on the lottery. Sorry about your luck. Well, actually...they really did have the better luck. The remaining associates were left with half-used perfume and cologne testers, various odds & sods, and tools.

Yea, I know what you are thinking. Tools...that sounds pretty cool. I got a screwdriver. That's it. And. OH AND. It was used. I could tell because the handle was a bit oily (as in motor oil-y) and it was a bit rusty. So that was that.

I think that my favorite gifts were the ones that were very singular to certain people. Someone got a TV that had been sitting in the smoker's break room for...well...since I had come to this store. Another person got a glove set, but they weren't connected. You know...like new gloves usually are. I think these had come from the lost & found...which usually means "found with a dirty diaper in a cart in the parking lot." The worst, though, is hard to believe. So I won't blame you if you think to yourself, Come on, boy. This is ridiculous. Because it totally is.

This 60 year old grandma got a cell phone. But it was used. Battery didn't work. Didn't turn on. Obviously used. Greasy buttons. And it was like one of those old old old Nokia designs.

I think that so many people complained about that experience at our store (and who knows how many others?) that the Wal-Mart heads were thinking: Our associates hate their gifts. Garth Brooks is signing an exclusive distribution contract with us. What better time than to unveil the final phase of Vanilla-izing Christmas?

So the next time you are in a Wal-Mart...or the next time you pass a Wal-Mart truck...or the next time you hear "Friends (In Low Places)"...think of that grandma's face when she found she got a cell phone...and then think about her face when she realized it was better suited as a poor prop in a Junior High production of The Substitute II. Starring Treat Williams. Rated R.

Oh. Do you want to know what we got this year? Cracker Barrel catered a "Holiday Party." No joke. As for gifts? Well, if you were "lucky" enough to not be left off of the lottery list, then you had a chance to win some fabulous Wal-Mart themed products. Who doesn't want a tin Wal-Mart truck? A Wal-Mart sweatshirt sporting that cool smiley-face?

I got nothing. That grandma won a truck.

The Black Friday Blitz

2005-11-27T22:48:00.000-05:00

Have any of you been in front of a mob of over 200 people? If you have, then you are officially one of us. One of us. One of us. One of us.

Working in retail is definitely an odd thing; people that would normally be given no authority at all are suddenly responsible for selling you things that you may or may-not actually need. There is really only one day where no rules are followed. Suddenly, the balance between the shopper and the seller are displaced. Yes, for one day every year, the fine scales of understanding are set to the side for realignment.

Some call it Black Friday; some call it Blitz Day. Myself? I refer to it as Awwwwwww damn...

I had to arrive at my store at 415 in the morning. Do you realize how many people were lined up at 415 in the morning? The line wrapped from the front of the store to the opposite side. Folks, for those of you who aren’t aware, that is the equivalent of two thirds of a football field.

When the doors opened at 5am, I was standing at the electronics department’s register. Hearing the sound of over 200 people running, knocking shit down and screaming while looking right into your eyes is something to fucking behold.

The first man to get to my register screamed "LAPTOPPPPPP!!!!!" for a solid three seconds. We suddenly realized that we were going to have some issues, given that all 200 people were screaming the exact same thing and we only had 25 laptops (let the record also show that they cost $378).

Now, very obviously, 25 doesn’t divide into 200 in a way that would have produced too many rainbows that morning, so when the announcement was made to everyone that we only had 25...things got ca-razy.

The laptops were held behind my circular counterspace, which was severely unequipped to deal with such a barrage. Saladin’s army of shoppers were quickly encroaching on my solitary holdout in my Jerusalem-of-a cash register. Arms started grabbing for the laptops, but luckily my managers arrived in time to hold them back.

I understand that people want to get the people that they love some great gifts during the holiday season. Nothing wrong with that...but when all civility suddenly dissolves, it seems like the point is lost. Here you are, honey. MerryHappyWhatever! Jeepers, you should have seen the old bag that I had to donkey punch to get this for you! Love you!

There has to remain the fake civility of the "how may I help you"-s and the "yes, can I please have this"-s inside the world of retail, no matter the time of year. Or perhaps it is too late for that. With the ultrastores like the one I work for competing with the slightly-ultrastores that I don’t work for, the time may have been missed. I know...I perpetuate it because I work there. But damn if I don’t get some good stories out of the joint.

Or maybe this day exists for all the shoppers to finally get back at the workers. Hmm...I could see that. I’ve observed nearly everywhere that when someone asks a worker "I didn’t see this product on the shelf, but is it in the back, perhaps?" that they are met with the same response. "No, we’re out."

No one believes that shit. At least I try to have the decency to walk into the stockroom, grab a smoke and toss some dice before I come back and say "No, we’re out."

If that is the case...if shopper’s are collectively and unconsciously deciding to rebel in this manner...then I’m all for it. Because I’ll be damned if I haven’t made some good money from tossin’ dice in the alley behind my store.

The Workers, Part 01: Eileen

2005-11-25T02:54:00.000-05:00

(Get to know the ones that assist you! This is merely one entry in the posting of this subject. Come back for more, homey.)

Some of you may think that I come down a bit too hard on the people that pay bottom-dollar to help fund my poor paycheck. I want to clear something up, right away. I’m not just a customer basher. No, sir. I also have many complaints with some of the people that I work with. Sometimes, they are better to tell stories about because I get to see them on a nearly daily basis. I think of them as family...but, like the retarded cousins that you make fun of with your brothers. So brothers, let me share the grand tale of:

Eileen.

I had to start with Eileen as my first co-worker to talk about because she was simply amazing. I never knew how old she was until I had been at this store for about a year. She is 78; worked in the toy department; she stands at five feet, three inches; weighs roughly 95 pounds; always wears matching blue sweatshirts and sweatpants; has taped her glasses so many times that they set lopsided on her head. And this is just scratching the surface.

Anyhow, she had many funny character traits. The most obvious was the fact that she calls everyone...everything...literally, all items and people... "Whatchacallit." Sitting in the break room one day, I heard her ask someone "How much is the uhh...whatchacallit?" When the person responded with the naturally-expected "What do you mean?", Eileen simply threw her hands up and left the room.

One time, she got on the intercom to get assistance. I should point out at this time that Eileen never took ANY time to help a customer out. I’ve seen her tell a customer to load up a treadmill onto their shopping cart by themselves instead of calling someone to help. So for her to call for help was a gigantic step for her. And it went a little something like this:

"Patrick? Patrick? Can you bring the uhhh...whatchacallit over to here? We need the whatchacallit over to here." Those are the exact words, and I can still remember them because I have never laughed so hard at an announcement.

Even though she looked like a sweet old lady...well, to be honest, she was pretty ragged. Her head looked like a naked Stretch Armstrong doll covered in dust bunnies. I imagine she smelled like that, too. This is off-topic, though.

OK, even though she was of the AGE to POTENTIALLY be a sweet old lady, she still had an arch-nemesis at the store. Norma, a fabric department associate, was the anti to Eileen’s christ. Since they worked in adjacent departments, they were to work to provide breaks and lunches for the other. Eileen hated this, and was quite open about it.

When cutting fabric, Eileen would fuck up the pricing tags so that a few square feet of cloth would ring up $4,000,000. Either that, or just cut it completely wrong. Or, better yet, she would tell people to "come back tomorrow."

For all these reasons, I’m fairly certain, she was fired. It is a bit sad that a little lady like that had to be fired. I mean...damn...she worked at that store since it opened, which was ten and a half years. It makes you wonder how she was when she was younger. Did she stop caring at some point? What could that point possibly have been? Will I reach that point?

It was around that question that I suddenly realized that I need to get out as soon as I can.

The Questions, Part 01

2005-11-25T02:15:00.000-05:00

(This is merely one entry in the posting of this subject. Come back for more, homey.)

I work in a department that naturally generates a lot of questions from people. The most common have something to do with USB cables, printer cartridges or RF modulators. In fact, I probably get asked at least five questions every day that can be traced back to those items.

Those are no fun, though.

I love it when I get a real awesome question. A zinger, if you will. In seven years, I can assure you that zingers abound, y’all.

One of these happened just a few weeks ago. We all know about the time changes that take place because of Daylight Savings Time. It can get very confusing, especially for old ladies. This oddly-groomed octogenarian approached me with a Kroger bag and pulled out an alarm clock. OK, I thought. Old lady want to return alarm clock. Not wake her up in time for Regis. Forget to feed thirty-nine cats because alarm not go off.

Instead of giving me some weird reason why she hates to buy products from those "Jap-pans," she spoke with the slightest of wheezes and asked me this: "I don’t know how to set my alarm clock to the right time for Daylight Savings Time. Can you do it for me?"

Now...................it seems like a pretty straightforward request. Right? Think about it again for just a second.

No...seriously...think about it.

How do you explain to a little old lady that her $5 alarm clock has no backup power, and if I set it for her at the store, it will only flash "12:00" for eternity when she gets it back home? Any explanation would set off a chain reaction of questions to explain what I meant.

So I set it for her, unplugged it, and sent her on her way. Sheeeeeeeit...you’d do the same. Stop hatin’.

Another example is considerably more common, and it happens every time we don’t have something in stock. "Does [insert name of another store here] have it?" Yea, let me consult my international inventory checker. Hmm...well the Best Buy down the street doesn’t have it, but according to my sources, there is some with your mom. Because that’s where I got it last night. From your mom. Instead, I just say "I really don’t know" in the most sarcastic tone I can shoot through my teeth.

A new favorite of mine in the past year has been pretty exciting. In fact, if I don’t get this every day I work, then I consider my day a failure. The great thing about having a vest on that says "How May I Help You?" and slightly-long hair (think: Ringo when he walked across Abbey Road) is that you look like a female from the back. "Excuse me, Miss." That is what I hear at least once a day. I have sort of comes to terms with it, and I usually try to say "Yes?" in the deepest voice I can gather before I turn around to face them with my bearded face. I’ve seen looks of horror, people.

So, in closing, you should really ask your question to yourself several times over before approaching a sales associate. I know that I have come to that point, personally. Fuck, sometimes I go months without asking a question...or research my question online for any potential angle I can get on the possible answers.

Educated shopping may be a tall order, but this bearded lady believes in miracles. And unicorns. But this is hardly the place to talk about that.

The Baha Men

2005-11-18T01:07:00.000-05:00

I think to properly set the mood for all the posts, I need to bring a few points to the forefront. When you go into a store, it is rarely for longer than thirty minutes. If it tops half an hour, you’re doing something way wrong and you are probably one of the people that I will subsequently be making fun of. Suckaz.

Anyhow, focused folk go into a store with a purpose. A list, perhaps. That comes in useful for when you want to get the hell out of there.
Imagine, if you will, what it might feel like to be inside a box for eight hours, only hearing the sounds of 25 alarm clocks that some wise-ass has set to go off every minute, the song "Who Let the Dogs Out" every ten minutes, and children screaming. It’s pretty much the worst.

I have been witness to some of the worst kids ever. One day I saw a child kick his father’s shin and say "Go to hell, dad" simply because the dad said it was time to go. Who do you blame for a situation like that? It is easy to point to the dad and say he has raised this little shit poorly, but I think it lies much deeper than that.

I don’t know who to blame, but children have this unwritten code when it comes to playing the video games in an electronics department. There is only one rule: if another kid is playing a game, it’s his. Now, that isn’t to say that the newcomer can’t constantly ask "Can I play?" while holding his or her nether-regions and pacing back and forth.
The only salvation that the newcomer has is when the parent of the other kid says that it is time to leave. The reactions range anywhere from ‘...comingggg...’ to ‘...one more MINUTE!!!’ Usually, the kid leaves. In this other case, though, the child had become so disenfranchised to the unspoken system of game transfer that it finally culminated in a swift sweep to his father’s shin.

Then again, the kid was probably just a little shit.

My favorite kids at my store are regulars. Every Sunday, these kids come in wearing their Sunday-Moderates. And these kids are twins. Two of the ugliest little pig boys that you could look at and not be totally appalled. Anyhow, they come into the department every weekend with the same enthusiasm; this involves kidney punches and stepping on each others’ heels.

They have the best method for getting the games away from the other kids. One of them stands on one side while the other stands on the other side, thus creating a peripheral peeve of pig-boy. They begin to ask the kid if they can try playing, probably in full knowledge that this won’t be enough to convince. What follows is a volley of head slaps and arm smacks on each other until the other kid feels uncomfortable and leaves.

Their system remains flawed, though, because they can never agree on who should be allowed to play it after it becomes available. That’s usually the point where I grab a ladder and unplug the TV they are playing on from the backside.

In short, it is now my theory that "Who Let the Dogs Out" subconsciously drives children mad and parents to become alcoholic.

The Introduction

2005-11-18T01:03:00.000-05:00

For most of my friends, their first job was a complete nightmare. In fact, that is quite possibly a prerequisite for everyone’s first job. We require that you work for little in wages, be willing to possibly humiliate yourself by wearing a visor and a hairnet, and leave within six months to a year.

Some first jobs, though, are so bad that you just can’t seem to let it go.

I had been sixteen years old for roughly four months when I stepped into the local super-chain to apply for a position. As a sixteen year old in Greenville, Ohio, not many options are available. You can bag groceries for $4 an hour, bus tables for $5 an hour, or work at the Wal-Mart for $5.75 an hour. At the time, it was pretty clear what I should do...but as luck would have it, all the positions were full for busboy at the Ponderosa.

Wal-Mart was happy to have a wide-eyed young lad to pull into its midst. Before I could get a job, though, there was a procedure that was standard for all potentials.

First, I had to watch a VHS promotional program explaining about the (late) "Great" Sam Walton. Facts followed concerning his ol’ company, his ol’ truck, his ol’ dog, and so on. It’s really just a blur, given that I didn’t give a fuck.

Second, I had to take a test. Yes. A test. To work at Wal-Mart. Many jokes have circled around this simple premise, I’m certain. The questions aren’t intended to separate the good salespeople from the bad; quite the contrary. Questions like: "Do you consider taking a roll of paper towels from the janitor closet stealing?" and "Have you ever inappropriately touched a supervisor?" are supposed to separate the supposed bad workers from the worse workers. What is generally gained from this test is roughly 20% more teeth per new hire (approximately).

To get to the point of this ongoing web-log (I will never say ‘blog’...web-log reminds me of Weblos, which is way-funnier), I still have my job at Wal-Mart. Sure, I’m a college graduate of a highly accredited four year university. Sure, I have a job in the television news industry. Sure, the job at Wal-Mart sucks.

The reason I keep this job is to bring the true stories of the people, for the people...to the people. Or close approximations to 'people', anyhow.

This web-log is dedicated to all those stereotypes. The old lady with the coupons and the checkbook standing in front of you at the checkout. The little kids stealing Christian Rock CDs. The thirty-something dirty-somethings asking if ‘P. Fiddy Cent’ is good for their ten year old.

Be sure to check back to learn about the types of people that are selling you things and the people that you share the aisles with. The results probably won’t surprise you, but hopefully they’ll humor you.