Slave: a person who is the property of and wholly subject to another; a bond servant.
The above definition is sometimes how I fell about my life. I work a shitty part time job. I am aged 22 years and I appear to be heading in the right direction in life. Or at least it is in a direction that should potentially have some upside to it. The stage of life that I am in right now is a journey that most people travel in and if you don't, then fuck you.
So this shitty part time job I spoke of; I work in retail. Specifically: I work in a shoe store, or as my boss constantly tells me, "It's a shoe store that sells apparel." Most days, I feel like I'm bound to servitude in this dismal place where I have been collecting my paycheck once a week for the last 4 1/2 year. But working in this store has allowed me to learn many lessons. I've learned how to fold a shirt, screw in a light bulb, count money, tie my shoe lases, and even taken a piss without asking my masters if I could do so. Did I mention I felt like a slave?
Now that I have given such a boring introduction to something you probably have little interest in, I will let you in on the purpose. 4 1/2 years of working in retail has really taught me a lot; mainly about people. It's a job of social interaction. I have learned, in more ways than I care to admit, that people just flat out suck. The shit and antics they create and what we, the associate, has to put up with. This is a story not about the messy shopper that leave their shit behind, but a story of all employes in the retail world. A story of awareness of the abuse customers bring down on the people who serve them. A story that will shift the power to not the customer, but to the retail slaves. This is a story that will shout out the good word; "No, the customer is not always fucking right!"
Let's layout the frameworks of this nonsense that goes on. First off, who the fuck came up with the witty tagline, "The customer is always, right?" I don't understand it. A customer walks in with a pair of shoes and tell me that they had just bought a pair of shoes about a month or two ago and they are falling apart. I examine the shoe. We don't have it. I have never seen the shoe before. Thankfully, I have 4 years of experience there to which I have a decent memory bank of past shoes. "Sir, I will agree that these shoes are falling apart, however, you did not buy these shoes a month or 2 ago." His face turns beet red, his eyes widen, and a little vein in the middle of his forehead begins to grow as if a crazy sand creature was about to break out onto the service.
"Excuse me?" He asks
I start to feel a hot flash as if I had said something insulting. Unbeknownst to me, I did. My body begins to moisten all over "Um... I said, you didn't by these shoes a month or 2 ago..." my voice crackles a bit and I suddenly I feel like I'm not 6' 2" anymore but more like I am a 3 foot 9 freak show.
"That's not the point! The point is these shoes are falling apart on me!"
Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold the phone. "That's not the point?" If it's not the point, then why bring it up? If I had the ability to speak what's on my mind to this gentleman, I would say, "listen hot shot, you have clearly worn these shoes for over 4 years. Like tires on a car, this shit wears out. I can't help the fact that beat the living shit out of your shoes. Buy a new pair and move on with your life. If you'd like, I will help you set up a memorial service for these shoes and we can cast them off into the ocean or something and call it a day." But I can't do that. In the end, it's my fault he over used the shoes. It's my fault that his shoes are not permeable to life's little obstacles and I have to get him a new pair. You're right and I'm wrong, because somewhere in all that clusterfuck bullshit, it makes sense. If you understand the rationale in all this, you might not want to continue reading. And no, I can't refund your time you have invested in this. However, if you're sitting there thinking, "wow, I'm stunned people get away with that shit..." then well, we haven't even scratched the surface yet. Please continue reading.
There's been many situations where I have come face to face with a customer and all hell breaks loose. As a retail slave, if a customer wants to bitch me out, they have about as much of a right to do just that, than I do to tell them to fuck off. Why? Because the customer is always right, or something bullshit that falls into the category. I have been called a "fucking asshole." I have been called pathetic. And all I can do, it just take it. I can't kick them out. I can't tell them to fuck off. Actually, I'm not sure if I can really say anything at all. Because, the company is afraid to lose a customer. They want every penny from them. And if I have to bend over and get anal fucked so they can buy a pair of shoe or 99 cent jewelry. My asshole is gonna get fucked, and I am gonna be wanting some ice after.
I want to briefly say is very simple. This is going to be my one and only rant about messy people. I was taught, when training, that everyone associate was to treat each customer as if they were a guest in their own home. Now, as a guest, would it be safe to say that you wouldn't treat someone else home as if it were yours? So in other words, I wouldn't go to someones house and just leave my shit around and destroy everything I saw in sight. No, that would be just rude. And I will leave it at that.
Contrary to many people's popular belief of a retail slave, we do have a social life. That leaves me to my final point in Part 1; closing time. On a constant bases, people decide to flood the store at their own conveniences, avoiding any of the signs that state our "Hours of Operation." Now I get it, you don't care. But I do. You walk into a store and you realize that the gate is halfway shut. For the love God, don't ask me if we are closing soon and don't look at me so surprised when I say we are. It just makes you look like a fucking idiot.When you are in a store and someone tells you that we close in 10 minutes. Don't tell them okay and then just ignore the whole idea. Get the fuck out! Or, don't whip out your watch/phone and tell me you have a different time. We are not open to people individual schedule and I wasn't telling you to warn you, I was asking you to get out nicely. When the party is over, it's time to leave. Not stay an extra 15 minutes. The closing time is not a suggestion. It means, we're closed and I want to go home. But unfortunately, I can't tell you to leave. I have to allow you to stay as long as it takes you to shop. Even if we are closed. Pretty fucked up, huh? But, like I said, the company wants every penny.
Retail isn't the hardest job in the world. In fact, its pretty fucking simple. But the hard part is the mental part. Some people can get yelled at by Drill Sargent all day long, and just laugh at the end of the day. Some people can take the abuse of someone who was bullied in elementary school and are taking their anger out on me. But at what cost? Why does a retail slave must endure so much? I end Part 1 on that. Part 2 to come soon...
To Be Continued....
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