Looking back on November 9, 2016, the day after the momentous presidential election in history, I should have known. I should have known that working in retail, especially over the holidays, was going to be challenging (cough). I should have known when the store manager, with the dreadful resting face, immediately messed up my schedule and blamed me for her error.
Princess Resting Face: “Oh, you walked away with the time off request form. I never saw it. It’s not in the binder.”
But I didn’t do that. I did not “walk off” with the document. I placed it in the binder exactly where it belonged. This time off request form simply stated that I could not work on Sunday mornings, before 2PM. So what did she do? She scheduled me on Sunday mornings! Within a second of her accusation that it was my fault, I found the form in question. It was inside the store binder – filed correctly. From there on, it got nuttier. I should have known.
This chain of women’s clothes is, for the most part, uninspired, and caters to middle-aged women. The clothes are quietly pleasant, but once in a while, amongst the garden-variety designs, there are a few really great pieces. I bought those.
What brought me there was clearly not the salary. So minuscule, the wage wasn’t even going to get me a “happy meal” at McDonald’s. No, I signed up for a part-time job over the holidays as a means to add more structure to my life; remind me of humility, and to make sure that I would not jump off the Griffith Park Observatory. It also seemed like a good “pattern interrupt” to my normal life as a clinical hypnotherapist and author. What I took home out of those four weeks were the following: Three tops, one pair of pants, two necklaces at fifty percent off, a partridge in a pear tree, and a few fun “retail” stories.
Here’s the thing. Living the life of a self-employed, entrepreneur, I had forgotten all about corporate America. Corporate American likes money (just like the current president, number 45) and as such, it wholeheartedly likes credit cards! Just to emphasize my point…one of the strongest pieces of advice I received from the veteran sales team was the utter importance of getting customers to open a store credit card. Unbeknownst to me initially, the “credit card push” was going to be vital to my future at the store (what future?). In turn, for the remarkable feat of getting Jane Doe to sign up for a store credit card, I would receive absolutely nothing. Nothing.
On the day that my very first customer signed up for a store credit card, the crack sales veterans treated me as though I had just scientifically reversed the aging process and solved world peace, all at once. It was astounding. Once the customer departed our mall shop, I got passionate high fives from everyone, even Princess Resting Face. Although I did not receive a text from the COO of this chain, my herculean achievement did earn me a blue star, on a two foot by three-foot poster board. And located next to each sales associate’s name, was a tiny, Picasso-like caricature of that person, created by one of the assistant managers (a pop artist). Being the new gal, my welcoming caricature was of a terribly distressed woman, next to a caption, “WTF am I doing here?”
Indeed. What WAS I doing there? I should have known…
It was unfortunate timing, but I began the regrettable job just a few days after Donald J. Trump was elected President (by the Electoral College, mind you). Like 2.8 million, it put me into a deep depression and left me with a sense of hopelessness. When I entered the dull but pleasant store on November 10th, the first thing I noticed was that nobody, and I mean nobody, was depressed. Their cavalier behaviors were cavalier at best, and suspicious. I waited all day for some kind of sign that one of these sales geniuses had voted for HC or Bernie, but no such confirmation appeared. In fact, over the course of four weeks, I never found out. One day, however, a lovely, white-haired woman came in and walked up to me without hesitation. Utterly charming, she spoke with a fantastic Australian accent. Blimey. She sounded like Meryl Streep in that Aussie movie where Meryl famously said, “The dingo stole my BABY! Well, that lady sounded just like Meryl. After a moment of chitchat, she said, “Would you like to come live in Australia for the next four years?” “YES!” I exclaimed. Then, “How did you know?”
She said, “I could tell. You just have a look. “We, in Australia have been watching, and we are appalled by your election. We are appalled. I feel so bad for you.” Me too, I thought.
This was the most bonding I did with anyone at that store, except Margaret, a deaf-mute. When Margaret walked in, I knew immediately that she was deaf. I’ve worked with a number of handicapped clients, and her condition was obvious. And better, she knew that I knew, so we had rapport immediately, and then I proceeded to help Margaret find lots of clothes for her pending trip to the UK. About 25 minutes into Margaret trying on clothes, another assistant manager (the place was crawling with assistant managers), named Misty, beckoned to me privately. But before I tell you what Misty said, I also must share that Misty looks like a fifty-year-old Britney Spears. Remember Britney in, the “Oops, I Did It Again” video? Well, Misty looks like she should be wearing plaid skirts and sucking on a cherry lollipop. In addition, she talks exactly like Georgia Engel, the child-woman character from the Mary Tyler Moore show. Remember her? She was Ted’s girlfriend, Georgette Franklin Baxter. Really sweet and really dumb.
With the sweetly stupid delivery of Georgette Baxter, Misty spoke to me like a kindergarten teacher. At this juncture, I had been working with Margaret for at least a half hour, when Misty pulled me off into a private corner.
Misty: “Now listen, that woman can’t hear, so you’ll have to make sure she can read your lips.”
Me: “REALLY? I hadn’t noticed.”
No, I thought it, but I didn’t say it. Margaret, my new best friend, bought a ton of clothes. She left the store very satisfied and thanked me warmly. The only wrench in this lovely novella was that although I sold her lots of clothes, I was unable to ring up Margaret’s sale and receive credit (not commission). The reason I could not ring up the sale was because the veteran sales women on the floor trained me for about fifteen minutes on a highly complicated computer system – a system that would give Edward Snowden a hernia and confuse the hell out of Bill Gates. The game amongst most of these women became, “Let’s watch Carrie TRY to ring up sales, without help.”
And that’s what they did for almost a month. They had a blast.
Princess Resting Face: “Cover the front of the store.” But she wouldn’t train me.
Then she ordered me to, “Spend the day in the fitting rooms, helping people.” But she wouldn’t train me on the computer system.
When I stood behind an associate to watch the 90 plus steps to ringing up a pair of leggings, I was told, “Get back out onto the floor.”
Cue song: “Get back Jo Jo. Get back to where you belong.” Eventually, on my final day, when I could not recall ONE step to ringing up a sale, the manager unloaded on me, “You need to get this. Hypnotize yourself. Just hit enter. Get over it.”
It was a classic double bind and a recipe for failure.
This was not the only insufferable and patronizing experience. There were the answers I received to basic questions. As an example – when I asked Misty where a blouse belonged, she effectively condescended.
Misty: “Now Carrie, just think about that question for a second.”
In response, I said, “Just answer the fucking question.” No, I didn’t do that. I took it on the chin as the new kid. When I asked someone else a different question, the answer I received was similar in tone, “Silly girl,” she said, grinning. Ladies, retail geniuses – please answer the frigging question! “Silly girl” is not an answer. In fact, “Up your ass” would have been a much better answer. At least it would have given me a location.
I should have known.
Well…silly me was accurate. I did not realize that the mean girl mentality existed amongst middle-aged women (many, not all of course). Silly me. I thought bitchiness was relegated only to high school girls with tats. I did not know that an impossibly dull, retail store could be fertile ground for a sit-com, blog or my next movie: Welcome to Retail.
Further, I did not know that my sales IQ rested on being able to identify slim cut pants from boot cut; OR wide leg pants from palazzo pants. I did not know that my future rested on knowing where to restock a petite LARGE. Isn’t’ that an oxymoron?
Mostly, here’s what I want you to know. Whenever a salesperson signs you up for a new credit card, a retail angel gets their wings and a salesperson gets a blue star. Not only that, corporate America gets a big, fat BONER.
Welcome to retail.