RETAIL WOES

I hated working there. Not because I hate clothes- I most certainly don’t hate clothing… just ask my closet. But either way, hating clothes or not, I hated working there. Knowing that for 5 hours or so, I would have to stand there wearing the same line of items I would initially have to try to sell.

Walking up to people asking each and every person how they were and if I could help them find something, trying to read people to see if I should even ask them how they are because if I did- are they kind that wants to be acknowledged in a store and if they don’t even get a smile when they enter, they may think about suing or maybe they are the kind of shopper that if I even glance at them or head in their direction I may be snapped at because I am invading their space.

I was always in the back, which was my zone. I was number 200. A number I was supposed to keep track of because I was just a seasonal helper- I suppose that would mean I was an elf. 200- Whenever someone bought a majority of pieces from my “zone” the cashier would have to tally how much money was being spent in my zone. I guess that is how the management knew who was doing their selling job.

“Sales.” That is what it read on my schedule every night I worked, which only happened to mainly be Saturdays. This meant when we were busy, I would have to use my time wisely to do what my boss considered “recovery.” I would have to start in my zone from the time I clocked on until 8 pm and refold every piece of clothing that was even remotely looked at or out of place. Then from 8 until we closed, I moved from my zone to the front. Refolding and rearranging the stacks of shirts and pants until I was blue in the face.

I hated not knowing when I would get a break, but I did know that I would rather sit on a bench in the mall for my 15 fly-by minutes rather than in the stingy little break room in the back. Every night I would take my water bottle wrapped in plastic and find a place to put it in the stuffed little refrigerator, making sure that it was not touching anything in there. Every time I opened the fridge the stench of moldy cheese and half eaten stale yogurt cups infused my nose with a scent that I was certain was not reality.

Without fail the manager who left moments after I arrived every Saturday would call at 8:30 pm on the dot to “check in.” I would always be folding the men’s jeans (which everyone claimed they couldn’t teach me because there was never enough time- when all it really was, was the front was showing and you fold them in half long way and then twice short way) about a hop, jump and skip away from the check out counter where the supervising manager would carry on a conversation that was heard throughout the store. “She is “recovering” right now. She’s doing the jeans. Oh, yeah- Linda is fine. She must have swept at least 8 times.” Then she would do that annoying fake laugh that would echo through the store and make my head pound.

We closed at 9 pm. The mall would close then, but we were just getting the closing process started at 9. The manager would have to do her money counting thing and who knows what else. I do know that it takes almost an hour to get it done, because we wouldn’t leave until 10. While she was doing that, I would still have to sweep the floor again, close and lock the front gate, remove all the garbage from the five trash cans in the store, make sure all the fitting rooms were clean of lost clothes, vacuum the fitting rooms, and then after all that was said and done, continue to do the “recovery” of the merchandise on the floor until she turned off the music. The music would be my cue to head to the storage room and clock out, grab my coat and purse, hit the lights for the place and head to my car.

Heading to car- I don’t think I have ever been so happy to leave the mall after a hard and tiring day at work in the retail business.