From the salon to the fitting room: Nelson finds his voice

For the past weeks, Nelson has mainly been a passive learner, observing the pros and learning the ropes at Podiatry.  But as he gets more on the job experience, he is becoming a deeper character.  This is finally shaping up to be the performance art piece I intended.  Before I explain Nelson's recent character development, allow me to provide some insight into the real-life experiment from my past that inspired this current one.

Unlike many human beings, especially female southerners, I do not have a particular person to whom I go when I fancy a trim of the hair.  I've been a haircut-hopper all my life, and as a youngster, it wasn't so bad.  However, I discovered as an adolescent the hideous social torture that is the haircut experience if you don't happen to be an extremely outgoing, whore-for-gossip equipped with hours of insane stories to recount to your necessarily hip, young, gossip-hungry hairstylist.

This awkwardness reached its peak when I was an undergrad as initial small talk revealed that I was a college-aged lady, AKA a perpetually drunk, sexual fiend whose downtime was split between going to frat parties in which gallons of communal "punch" was served, doing it with anyone who would have me, and attending mass gatherings of similarly-aged youth in serendipitously abandoned warehouses.  When the succeeding 5 minutes of conversation proved that I was none of those things, rather a philosophy major with nothing exciting to reveal (except perhaps for the revolutionary bouleversement that Bergson brings to a hundreds-of-years history of otherwise subject-centered metaphysics), the enthusiasm of the person handling my hair would plummet, silence would reign, and the cut was over and done with before she had time to spin me around with a mirror in my hand so that I could assure that the back of my head wasn't slashed-at in too unseemly a manner.

Fed up with the alienation, I decided to simply become a different, more exciting person on just the moment that my ass hit the swiveling chair and the plastic hair-catching cape came swooping down over my body. I would take on the personality of whatever hairdresser happened to be cutting at my hairs. I do this even now: I take their vocal cues and pick up on their syntactical tendencies and become them in order to easily find common ground for conversation.  And I of course pattern my stories after their own.  The tactic has so far been a success, totally eliminating the awkwardness and insuring that my hair is in caring hands.  Oh, and I've had a ball making up and telling tall-tales on the spot to rave reviews.

...Like the one about how my boyfriend's family hated me because he cheated on his then wife (an oncologist) with me, resulting in their eventual divorce and my being banned from all holiday functions.  I had the whole salon in the palm of my hand at that denouement which was followed with jovial hooting of female solidarity (as if breaking up a marriage is the most primal representation of what it means to be a liberated woman).

Then there was the time that I fashioned myself as a radical proponent of right-winged politics (just following the lead of the one with the scissors!), happily spouting-off conspiracies about Obama's mysterious origins and speaking reverently of Palin's shining view of our national future.

My recent Podiatry fitting room encounters have thus far conformed to this general model, yet instead of taking on the personality of the hairdresser, I take on that of the client, of course.  But I cannot tell you of these experiences yet as I am too busy stealing people's husbands and campaigning for the election of governor of Mississippi and tobacco industry lobbyist HALEY BARBOUR to the office of President of the United States in 2012.  Barbour to the White House first.  Nelson stories later.

Nelson goes to work NAKED

Okay, okay, I didn't go to work naked.  BUT DON'T YOU MESS WITH ME RIGHT NOW because after the events of the past hour, I'm THIS close to showing up to the doors of Podiatry tomorrow morning showing off the new spring fashion: a fleshy, slightly sunburned, yet-to-shed-the-winter-padding ensemble otherwise known as my uncovered, hang-out-with-your-wang-out, jam-out-with-your-clam out birthday suit to end all birthday suits.

So what kind of events would create in a person the desire to bare their bits to the world?  Trying to decide what to wear to work tomorrow morning, of course.  Man, I'm really starting to smash myself for accepting this job.  I'm not Nelson!  I don't look cute all the time, half the time, or even a quarter of the time! 

My preferred winter outfit: polar bear sleep pants that I pilfer from the man who lives with me, knee-high socks of any print, design, or material (though I usually end up wearing one fuzzy pink one and one striped hot green and blue...it's too hard to keep up with both of them), and any number of thick things swaddling me up top...again probably stolen from that man.

My preferred summer attire: as little as possible, but consisting mainly of thin, solid colored t-shirts and nylon shorts. But if I feel it's socially acceptable to eliminate either of those at any given time, you bettah' believe I take advantage.

I've exhausted all of my Podiatry-like outfits for the past several shifts I've worked, and I find myself back at square BORING.  So I pooled my meager resources this evening and did a massive try on of all the things I own in an attempt to find something edgy or cute or interesting so that I can not feel like a Podiatry outcast tomorrow.  Outfits that came out of this great attempt:

1. What I thought was going to be an awesome high-waisted skirt + tucked in shirt combo had me looking like I was wearing bags upon bags of fabric. I sought the opinion of the man-in-the-house, and he beheld me with head tilted to one side and a kind of confused, brow-furrowed facial expression going on. "You don't like it?" was my immediate response to this bewildered contemplation. "Well, I'm just not used to you...in that kind of thing."  I think I heard him describe it as "vaguely 50's-ish" as I traipsed back to my closet, and I have no idea what he meant by that.

2. Some dark (way-too-tight at this point) kinda dingy grey skinny-cut pants and a sleeveless blouse that looks like it was ripped off of the wall of the diner from Saved-By-The-Bell: random streaks of 90s colors: hot pinks, dark greens, and brown.  Yeah, I don't know why I ever bought that or why I thought it would work for a Podiatry outfit as I looked like a punk teenager roaming the streets of Munich at night.

3. Some Gap "trousers" and some ole shirt.  Gap trousers are perhaps my favorite for "dressy" occasions (an insight into my fashion sense, no doubt).  But I couldn't imagine myself wearing them in Podiatry.  Next to my co-workers, I feel I'd look like their mothers.  Or worse, their 2nd grade teachers.    

All this I was doing, by the way, while man was cooking up a storm and blasting crazy avant-garde jazz.  This means that it was SWELTERING in our home and contributed to extreme feelings of hotflash as I hurried from closet to mirror putting on and taking things off.  Let us not forget that I was all the while being assaulted in the ears by frenzied honking. 

Sitting on the porch in the cool of the night and processing the event helps me reevaluate my previous desire to take it all off for my morning shift.  I'll probably just do the logical thing and recycle an outfit that I've already worn.  I have nothing to be ashamed of by wearing a shirt to work twice.  Just because it appears to me that my coworkers are constantly showing off new runway-caliber duds every time they step through the theft-detecting scanner and enter Podiatry's walls doesn't mean I am required to do the same.  I was hired to do a job, and do it I will.  Fully clothed, if I must.

XS: XTREME skinniness

Perhaps it's premature to post my observation of this phenomenon seeing as I've worked a total of two shifts at Podiatry, but I will comment on it briefly and flag it as something to gauge as I continue my travail: there is an abundance of LITTLE clothes at Podiatry.

Having completed the restocking task an incredible and noteworthy TWO TIMES, I notice that the most common size that I am folding or re-hanging is XS: extra small.  Furthermore, there seems to be an abundance of the XS and S sizes on display or available for pickin' up.  Not to mention that the common means of stacking clothing items or arranging them on a rack (in all stores) is to put the XS on top/at the front and follow with the progressively larger cuts.  This means that the XS is always staring you in the face when you regard a pile of clothes or approach a stand-alone rack.  If you want the XL, you are forced to demolish the carefully constructed mountain of folded clothes in order to reach your goal; if you want an XS, you just grab and go.

Yesterday, I attended (while remaining suspicious of her every move, of course) to a lil' thing in the fitting room who when I asked, "Mrs. Bratwurst, how are things going?  Can I get you another size?" responded with, "Why yes, Nelson.  I need one size down in this top."

I frantically ripped my walkie-talkie from its resting place in the waist of my jeans and radio-ed a CODE RED to Bad Bad Leroy Brown.  "Get you ass in here, Leroy, we got a customer WHO NEEDS SOMETHING, PRONTO!"  Minutes later Bad Bad Leroy Brown returned with an XS in the top which fit Mrs. Bratwurst perfectly.  I complimented her, saying that it was a perfect "fresh" look for spring adding also that it seemed "playful" without being "immature."  She said, "Yeah, it's really CUTE."  So much for the intelligent clientele.

Again, I haven't spent many days in the fitting room or in the re-stocking enterprise, but the theme that seems to be emerging is that an abundance of XS people shop at Podiatry and that fewer XLs even dare come in.  I don't think it's so much the case that Podiatry doesn't carry larger sizes; they do. But not as many of those larger sizes are out on the floor because the average lady that comes on in is simply an XS.  She's either of midget proportions, or she's damn skinny.  Nothing wrong with being either of those...just an observation.

Nelson on the other hand, being the aged, solid gentleman that he is, feels like a thick, towering OAF in the midst of all these XS folk.  But I count my stature as a totally useful and intimidating characteristic as I know my Podiatry loyalties will one day require me to tackle would-be-thieves in the parking lot as they attempt to flee with armfuls of giraffe candlesticks and verbena-scented candles.      

Never. Say. Cute

As of Wednesday, Nelson has been trained in the ways of the fitting-room, and already I feel more proficient  in the areas of (1) always suspecting customers of being potential criminals and (2) manipulating my language in order to beguile women into thinking of their shopping as an art, not just as a selfish, consumer activity.  But before I get to that, let me introduce another character to our growing Podiatry cast.

When I arrived at Podiatry's doorstep at 8am, Mama Skaggs introduced me to my training partner for the morning, a delightfully easygoing, pleasant person, the first who does not come across as an over-eager sorority sister.  Bad Bad Leroy Brown instructed me in her expert re-stocking ways for the first two hours of the morning (which involved me roaming around the cavernous interior of Podiatry trying to scrutinize every possible cranny in which clothes may be stuffed in order to find the pile containing the specific item I was restocking) and then gave me the scoop on fitting-room duties.  Let me explain the procedure below:

Step One: When any warm body holding clothes approaches the fitting-room proximity, snatch away the clothes from their arms as quickly as possible.  But do this while smiling and being amiable so that it won't look suspicious.  

Step Two: Hang their things (that they're definitely trying to steal) in the dressing room, and force them to tell you their name so you can write it on their door using a dry erase marker.  Also, don't forget to indicate how many items they have.  Because they are trying to steal all of the items and will definitely be shoving loungewear in their purses or stuffing v-neck camisoles down their pants or tucking decorative soaps in their bras.  

Step Three: Tell them your name, and tell them how much you can't wait to see them in that floral-print skirt and that you would be happy to get them ANYTHING they need, seriously, ANYTHING.

Step Four: Exactly three minutes later, approach their door and call out to them, using their name. "Ursula!" you would say, for example, if the woman's name were Ursula, "how are those sizes working out?  Can I get you anything?" A neck-massage?  A BLT? A gin and tonic?

Step Five: If they emerge to stare at themselves in the big, three-panel mirror, COMPLIMENT THE FUCK OUT OF THEIR OUTFIT but be honest.  TELL THEM HOW AWESOME IT LOOKS AND THAT THEY HAVE TO GET IT but just remember to keep it real.  Just say, "Oh my god that's so CUTE"

BEEEPBEEEPBEEEEPBEEEEPBEEEEP

NEVER.  SAY.  CUTE.  Bad Bad Leroy Brown very tactfully instructed me in this subtle but totally necessary trick.  After having a rousing discussion with a woman about how "cute" the sleeves were on an otherwise boxy, shapeless article of clothing that can only be described as a sailor-suit for adult, non-seafaring women, Bad Bad Leroy Brown informed me that, here at Podiatry, it's important to differentiate and diversify our usage of adjectives. Cute is a word that girls ages 7-15 employ on a regular basis to describe any and everything in the world.  Podiatry wants to make its customers feel as if what they are purchasing is special and adult.  We as fitting-room personnel are to play to their desires to be seen as intelligent, creative, and well-traveled by using words like "bohemian," "chic," "tailored," "vintage-inspired," etc.  Cute is out of the question.

Step Six: If they do request anything, tear apart the store to find it.  If unable to accommodate their request, lay your body across the wood-stumps that serve as fitting-room stools (I'm not kidding...I will describe these stumps at a later date), provide them with a knife, and offer up your body as a blood sacrifice for the indiscretion.

Step Seven: As they leave, dash into the room and search it thoroughly for any tags that they may have ripped off the clothing (that they are trying to steal).  The tags contain sensors that set off the alarm.  Ripped off tags allow for easy, undetected theft.  

Nelson now mistrusts all humans but will nevertheless cater to their every whim while speaking proper King's English. 

Day One: Nelson joins a sorority

Podiatry Bid Day, 2011

Today, Nelson joined a happy, glossy, super-enthusiastic group of new and veteran Podiatry employees in what can only be described as sorority bid-day on a slightly smaller scale.  Instead of a herd of white girls running across a field into the arms of new sorority sisters, 5 white girls crossed a parking lot and entered the doors of Podiatry to be greeted with cupcakes, name-tags, and a new-member, I mean EMPLOYEE, handbook.  There was sparkling grape cider in champagne glasses to toast the beginning of "a new journey in the lives of each of us" baby Podiatry team members.  Our pledge mom, I mean orientation leader, taught us about Podiatry's founder and the history of the organization, complete with pictoral illustrations of some of the original stores and followed by mini quizzes (to make sure we were listening).  Already I could feel a sense of loyalty creeping into my bones: their instructional, inspirational, educational, some might say propoganda-ish, material slipping its hands around our necks and tightening, tightening, tightening...

Orientation being packed with listening, smiling, eating cupcakes, and learning about our new lives, I had little time to develop Nelson as a character, nor did I have much time to get much of an impression of my coworkers.  But certain stereotypes about the typical Podiatry worker shone through in my new buddies:

1. As a friend of mine predicted about my possible new co-workers, there was indeed one amongst the new members--she will be known as Dr. Gutstein--wearing a pair of glasses that looked like they belonged a muumuu-wearing seventy year-old.   
2. The girl who I'll call Moonblood revealed that she was a food blogger, as if there aren't enough of those in this world. 
3. Our pledgemaster, Mama Skaggs, as she will now be called, rampantly punctuated all conversations with explosions of "Oh-my-god-that's-so-sweet!!!!"

Day one was a blur, so much so that Nelson was unable to begin coming into his own.  But my next shift is Wednesday when I'll be working with Mama Skaggs (but unfortunately none of my fellow new members) and will begin burrowing my mole tunnels all up in Podiatry.

It all began with a haircut...

Dear readers, let me give you a bit of context to situate the project.  (I have a feeling that you will determine sooner or later the true identity of Podiatry.  But I ask that we never refer to it as such to protect my mole-ness and my secret identity.  Nevertheless, you are about to get some clues that will give you insight into the nature of the establishment.)

The thing about Podiatry is that my eyes like to look at its interior and my body covets its goods, but I don't like going in there because I feel out-of-its-league; meaning the things are expensive and I don't feel as if I fit in with the clientele or the shopkeeps.  I feel underdressed or dressed wrongly or..simply as if my being doesn't fit in with the aesthetic.

As a part of my great job-search-of-the-spring-of-2011, I, on a whim, entered into the somewhat terrifying walls of Podiatry, not expecting anything to pan out, with the simple wish of seeing whether or not they were seeking employees.  (Half the battle of landing a job is timing: finding a place that actually needs warm bodies to hock their goods.)  I was "in luck" in that they indeed needed bodies, and they informed me that they were having open interviews that very night at 6pm.  Seeing as its rare to actually be afforded a face-to-face chat with a potential employer, I decided to take this opportunity.  But if I can hardly feel comfortable going in there, how could I even think that I'd be accepted as an employee?

MY HAIR.  I recently got a bold, some would say stylish some would say asinine, haircut that when styled correctly makes me look edgy and interesting and when not styled makes me look a little bit like my 57 year old mother.  My instinct was that Podiatry would get a certain impression of me (right or wrong) thanks to my styled hair.  "Look! An edgy..." (read fashionable and thus at least somewhat well-off) "...lady with spunk, attitude, and overall appeal.  This lady will be perfect for roping in customers."

Perhaps it wasn't just my hair that got me hired.  Who knows.  That's part of what I want to find out as a mole in Podiatry.  Are the workers hired simply as another part of the interior design element?  Is it more of a mixture of competency and personal grooming habits that lands you a job at Podiatry?  Am I all making it up?

But I'll have to do some investigation to figure this all out.  In the meantime, I need to start crafting my persona.  Who is Nelson Mandela?
  

THE PROJECT

To all of you, I'm Nelson Mandela, a 20-something white female who just got a job at...let's call the store "Podiatry."  From my first working-day (tomorrow) on, I will use this blog to chronicle the secrets of retail, airing Podiatry's dirty laundry and shedding light on the evils of consumer-America.  

What's the interest in that, you ask?  Quatrillions of 20-something white females work in clothing stores and bitch about it to their friends after long shifts of politely folding jeans that selfish customers recklessly bandied about.  Why tune in to hear Nelson Mandela rattle on about how some lady pitched a fit when the store didn't carry her size?  Why faithfully follow the beating-a-dead-horse discussions about using every trick in the book to better lure customers into the trap of spending too much money on shit they don't need?  Because.  I'm a mole.  And the project is more than just a rant.  It's an experiment. I will be playing a part.  I will be Nelson Mandela.    

The irony of my choice of profession--shop girl (or shop man, as it were, since I'm Nelson)--is that I really rather hate chain retail stores, and I don't like selling things to people.  But I needed a job, and Podiatry was the first place that took me in.  Instead of being thrilled to get a call from Podiatry's manager offering me employment at 9.25 an hour, I felt that by working there I would be simply cowing to the whims of the affluent, insodoing being complicit with the negative power structures inherent in our capitalist society.  

But I decided to transform it into a kind of performance art/undercover piece. I will craft a persona during my tenure there, a persona aimed at probing prejudices, digging into discrimination, and uncovering unwarranted privilege.  Perfect happy reading for these tough economic-social-political times.  Let the great! experiment!  BEGIN!