Retail Hell

Anyone who has ever worked in retail or customer service can tell you first hand that it sucks. It sucks big time.

Now, I’ll be the first to admit that I’m being selfish for not appreciating my job in this terrible economy. It’s nearly impossible to get a job in any field, and I should kiss the ground my boss walks on for keeping me as a seasonal employee. She doesn’t have to do it, and most managers have completely cut their seasonal staff in recent months.

To protect my identity, I’m not going to reveal my place of employment, or any of my co-workers real names, but I will tell you all about it. We sell collectibles, greeting cards, stuffed animals, and basically every other type of useless chachkela one could possibly want.

Looking for a five foot birthday card? A singing monkey? An ugly glass angel statue with a purple halo? Come to my store!

The first person to train me was named Angelo*. He was a fierce, flamboyant, loud little man with a bossy attitude. He had me doing seven projects at once, all the while ringing up customers, trying to push our latest St. Patrick’s Day light-up pins and making sure to include the senior discount. Angelo took no prisoners, and made sure that we never had a spare moment to breathe.

One afternoon when Angelo and I were working alone, he was acting funny. I had been arranging the new section of unfortunate-looking porcelain figurines for an hour when I decided to go back to the office and check on him.

He was curled up in the fetal position on the floor, crying under the desk.

When I asked him what was wrong, he told me that he couldn’t keep up his fierce persona every day.

“I can’t go back out there,” he cried.

“Angelo, you know I’m the only one in the store, right?”

“You are?” he sniffed. After blinking a few times, he told me that the customers just expect too much from him and should realize he’s a real person too.

I found it hard to be sympathetic towards Angelo for two reasons.

1. He was crazy.

2. He was constantly pretending to be someone he’s not, which is something I do not advocate.

However, crazy managers are not the only weird people I come across at my job. We have a regular group of customers that never seem to disappoint.

One woman, whom I’ll call Tanya*, has a habit of coming into the store and fitting as much into her arms as she possibly can. Just as she looks like she’s about to drop everything on the floor, she comes and drops it all onto the register. As I begin to ring up the items, usually expensive stuffed animals and musical candlesticks, she looks through her purse frantically and rushes out of the store, without a word.

I’m always left standing there, unsurprised, and pissed during the next half an hour I have to put away all of her merchandise.

I’ve been working at this store for two years, and Tanya has done this at least five or six times to me. I don’t think any of my co-workers have had to deal with her. It’s like she seeks me out and wants to make me miserable.

The next customer I’ll call The Chocolate Lady*. She comes in every Saturday, right around 11 a.m., and peruses our small chocolate and candy selection.

“Anything on sale, deary?” she always asks me.

“No, Chocolate Lady. Our chocolate never goes on sale,” I reply, just like I do every week.

“Alright, well next week then,” she says, and leaves the store.

I know The Chocolate Lady doesn’t have any kind of Alzheimer’s or mental disorders because I’ve had full conversations with her on days other than Saturday mornings. She’ll come in looking for a card for her granddaughter’s Bat Mitzvah, or her sister’s 50th birthday.

But every Saturday, without fail, it’s all about chocolate.

My favorite customer is one I’ll call Barry*. Barry is a middle aged man. He walks with slumped shoulders and has thinning hair on his head, but very hairy arms and legs.

How do I know of his hairy legs, you may ask?

I know of Barry’s hairy situation because of the red track shorts he wears. All. the. time.

Once I asked him if he just came from the gym, and he calmly told me that they were just his favorite thing to wear because of the nice ‘breeze’ down there.

His words, not mine.

The day before Mother’s Day a few years ago, I was handling a particularly long and heinous line all by myself. My coworkers were at lunch, so I was doing my best to ring patrons up and get them out.

I noticed Barry out of the corner of my eye, toying with the glass case of cake cutters and wedding cake toppers. I didn’t think much of it, until he appeared at my side, holding a sharp cake cutter right next to my arm.

“Wow, this is sharp,” he said, running his finger up and down the blade. “Someone could seriously hurt someone with this thing!”

At that moment, I was incredibly angry that I had never been trained in what to do if I was ever shanked with a porcelain cake cutter, but I stayed calm.

“Oh, you’re right, Barry. Actually, my sister’s wedding is coming up and I need to buy that.”

I quickly snatched the sharp cake cutter from his hand and placed it under the register.

When my coworkers returned from lunch and I told them about my near-death experience, they laughed.

Now, I’m not saying that I hate my job. Not at all. All I’m saying is that I don’t get paid nearly enough to be everyone’s therapist, psychoanalyst, mathematician (“How much does this cost, young lady?”) or marriage counselor.

Minimum wage just isn’t gonna cut it.