This is the true story of 15 strangers picked to work in a chain retail store and have their hourly DPTs (that's "dollars-per-transaction") measured.. to find out what happens when sales associates stop being branded (er... I mean, "trained") and start hawking sweaters. The Retail World. Buffalo.
Well, friends, after a prolonged absence, I return again to rant like an idiot. I took a little break from the information super highway (it was delightful! Though I seem to have missed some good stuff-- congrats on your run, Mike, and thanks for making me wiser about bathroom crises, Ant!), but I am happy to be back in the loop again.
So let me catch you up on my riveting life. I am currently living with my parents (oh, you can already tell this is going to be a juicy paragraph!), working nights and weekends in a chain clothing store (name withheld to protect my employment status), and trying to finagle a job at my Dad's office while I wait for my orders from the foreign service (good news update: I officially have security clearance! Hurrah!). My exciting social life revolves around my church's youth group, which I have been cojolled by one of my friends from high school to help run (you can take the girl out of Bloomington, but you can't take the "churchie" out of the girl... unfortunately). You wish you were me.
Actually, I have to admit it is kind of nice to be back in the Buff. I haven't been here for more than a month at a time in probably ten years, so it is kind of nice to have a little downtime between adventures (though I am hoping, of course, that this little breather is "little"! :). And, I must admit, working in retail is, well,
fascinating. And terribly instructive. Allow me, please, to share two vingettes to illustrate this truism:
#1:
Our store officially opened last week. After several intense days of scrubbing, unpacking boxes, folding and hanging, we were ready to throw our doors open to the public. On our first night in business, I was assigned to greet customers at the door and inform them of our specials ("Spend $200 and save 10%"!). Two senior citizens on a merry Christmas mission came through the door and seemed particularly tickled to see me... though, truthfully, I couldn't picked them out of a line up (don't worry, though, I put on my thousand-points-of-light toothy smile and faked it like a pro!).
"Nativity, right?", one of them asked me.
"Well, yes, ohmygosh, what a memory," I replied with shock. Nativity of our Lord was my grammar school, from which I graduated fifteen years ago.
"Oh, well, I never forget a face!"
The ladies took a stroll about the store, made some savvy purchases, and again chatted it up with me when leaving.
"You're graduated now, honey?", my friend asked. "June, right?"
"Well, I finished up in August, actually, though I still have that big paper looming ahead of me". At this point, I am feeling appropriately guilty for not having any idea who this woman that knows everything about me is.
"Well, that's just part of the experience," she replied, "Don't let it get you down. High school will be the best four years of your life".
OMG.
OMG
This woman thought I was 13.
THIRTEEN. She thought I was THIRTEEN-
EXPLETIVE-YEARS-OLD. And I asked her how old she thought I was, just to confirm it. OMFG.
So, the moral of vingette #1: Retail teaches one how others perceive her.
In this case, I learned that I look like a pre-pubescent Bobbsie-twin-reading pig-tail-wearing juvenile ("Can't wait until I get my license! Only three more years!"). Consequently, I have become an enthusiastic champion of the Wonder Bra, power suit, and cakey make-up which, when strategically clumped, offers the illusion of wrinkles.
I look like a child. Good to know.
Vingette #2:
On my third day of work, my "floor coach" (manager) offered me kind tips on how I could improve my UPTs (units per transaction). Sadly, my numbers are on the lower end of the spectrum, as I have trouble pressing upon clients that which they do not need. But that is my job... and my slack performance is beginning to garner the unhappy notice of management. Bad news.
So, while I am again working the door and futzing with the items on our feature table, in walks a man in his late forties with his two grade school daughters in tow (my classmates, according to the lovely lady from three nights prior). I am concentrating hard on my board folding, as I am also aware that my fold borders on remedial-- way to sloppy for the impeccable standards of this exclusive chain. I want to get this right, so I unfortunately fail to greet the trio (too much going on at one time). Luckily, the coach catches my faux pas and lets them know about today's promotions. Then, while my head is still bent over the camies I am meticulously stacking, he comes up behind me and offers me this golden nugget:
"See that guy over there? He is wife shopping. Get your claws into him before the other girls do".
"Ohmygod!!!", I reply with utter horror, "Do you really think I am that pathetic?! I don't know which is worse-- being perceived as Disney-channel watching 'tween', or a desperate old maid!!! The man is probably twice may age-- with kids closer in age to me than he is!! I am only 29-- there are still plenty of non-geriatric fish left in the sea"!!!
Lesson #2 taught to me by retail: The pressures of the business often unearth one's subconscious fears.
In this instance, my Freudian misinterpretation of my manager's comments ("I just meant that he is shopping
for his wife" {Laugh, laugh, laugh} "For Christmas. For her". {Gaffau, gaffau, gaffau}) revealed a concern I didn't know I had: I may die a cat-lovin' spinster.
Hmm. I had no idea I was worried about this. Who knew?!! Thank God I have this job so I can learn important things about myself! Now I have lots to reflect upon during my hours of hanger straightening, when I am trying to block out our store's muzak Christmas playlist. Excellent.
Thus, friends, my take home message is this: if you want to learn more about yourself, skip the expensive therapy sessions and get paid to delve into your psyche. Work with the public! Hawk cutlerly, cars, or clothing! And learn, learn, learn!
May 3, 1933 - December 25, 2006 
