I spent the first month of employment basically penned in the Podiatry fitting room like a caged chicken confined to a life of shitting out eggs, except instead of tasty protein-rich embryos, I've been expected to birth from my cage a pile of women ready to spend money. Recently I was released from this pen to perform a new job, that of flitting about the store greeting customers, relieving them of their clothing burdens by starting them fitting rooms (seriously, if I did not take things from them as they shop, by the time they got to the fitting room, they'd by so buried with clothing they'd look like donkeys packed with the goods necessary to make the precarious trek down into the Grand Canyon), straightening things up as I go, and, most importantly, more diligently patrolling the perimeter for would-be shoplifters. In such a liberated capacity, I have had more extensive experiences with my coworkers, and I'm beginning to understand them both on an individual and a more cohesive level. Before I draw broader conclusions, I will analyze some of the yet-to-be-analyzed ones below:
Tiny Tim: One of two males who work in this lady-clothes/home-good store, Tiny Tim looks exactly as you are probably picturing him...that is if you are thinking of the waifish, crutch-wielding Dicken's character and not the Jheri-curl-sporting ukulele player who made a name for himself thanks to his falsetto rendition of Tiptoe Through the Tulips. Tiny Tim is fourth-year university student majoring in fashion or marketing or something and working at Podiatry for some cash and experience for his future career in deceiving people into buying over-priced, low-quality things. Not only is he unique in the store because of his maleness in a female-dominated environment (the other male who we'll call Mr. Goodbar because I really like him...he's Canadian...may not be discussed because he only works early mornings and exclusively in the back), but I would venture to say that he holds another in-store record: tiniest employee on payroll. Seriously. His legs, always wrapped tightly in denim right down to his Converse-like shoes, are like chopsticks, his torso like an inflatable bath pillow, and his little arms, always aloft in a dainty Mr. Burns kind of position, are like those of a kitten. Having worked in the store for a few years, he is very knowledgeable about the product and about where thing are to be found. He was very welcoming of Nelson, as they all creepily seemed to be, and appears to treat the customers well, though certain events contradict this surface-reading of TT's sweetness. The incident includes Tim and one other coworker who I will describe before launching into the sordid tale.
JubJub: JubJub, a manager, is the one who conducted my first interview, which was a generally professional affair during which we both sat up straight, made eye-contact, all that job-interview jazz you learn in 7th grade in Career Discovery, which is the most logical time (13 years old) to start honing your interview skills (in a job market where almost all applications are done online and the chance of even getting an interview depends on luck or your ability to network). From her intelligently posed questions and subsequent scribbling to her timely follow-up concerning all things hiring process, not to mention her severely angular, shiny, dark bangs framing her impeccably made-up face on her smartly dressed form culminating in meticulously manicured toenails, I had the impression that I was dealing with a serious female in her upper twenties whose positive professionalism could be rivaled only by the most ethics-obsessed businesswomen. I soon learned, from the frequent outbursts of sharp giggling and squealing and the obsessed chatter about upcoming Britney concerts that she, too, had mastered a kind of Nelson-like work persona, but one that she chooses to turn on every once in awhile. She's got a strange lilt to her voice that isn't baby-talk or valley girl but a kind of preppy hybrid of the two.
I will pause from my character descriptions to detail an incident that occurred one fateful evening in the minutes after Podiatry had closed its doors for the night. For some context, I will say that Podiatry locks its doors when the arms of the clock indicate the closing time. At this hour, music is turned off. There may be customers who entered before the lock-down still milling about and/or trying things on. On the evening before Mother's Day, for example, there were about 6 ladies still dressing, undressing, and buying for a solid half hour to forty minutes past lock-down. And even once all of those had been flushed from the store, a single male remained, (clearly a confused Mother's-Day-gift-seeking husband), walking circles around the store looking blankly at his surroundings in a desperate way as if he didn't know where he were anymore but knew that he needed to buy something for some reason. This man did not check out for a full HOUR after the store “closed.” The only words addressed to this (white) man were “Sir, do you need any help?” or “how are you doing?”
To get back to the Tiny Tim/JubJub story, upon closing one evening, two ladies remained. They had, granted, timed their entrance perhaps poorly, entering 5 minutes before our scheduled shutdown, but according to precedence, they were within their right to continue shopping. They joyfully went around the store, cooing over this and that, suggesting items to one another, holding a couple of things that they clearly were planning on purchasing. I went about my closing duties as I had on the eve of Mother's Day assuming that we'd respect their right to keep shopping; but mere minutes after the music was switched off, JubJub was already bitching about their past-closing presence. When they came within eye-contact range, she gave them nothing but concerned looks, offered no help, etc. As I ran fitting-room-rejects back to the floor, she communicated to me her anger and annoyance at their continued shopping. Tiny Tim remarked, “Man, JubJub's really pissed about those ladies.” 10 minutes later, JubJub finally approached them saying that she was required to shut down the register as soon as possible and that, if she did not do this, corporate would give her an angry call wondering why their sales day was not finalized for the evening. The women happily complied, expressing remorse at not having realized that the store was closed, and bobbed happily over to the register to pay for what they had clearly been planning on purchasing. Once processed and released into the night, Tiny Tim pronounced his judgment on the whole affair:
“HOW IGNORANT. They were so ignorant. How could they not know that we were closed? I mean, the music was off. I just can't believe it.”
JubJub chimed in with her hearty agreements. “Ya'll, I don't usually do that, but I just had to get them out of here.”
They continued blowing off steam about the “ignorant, inconsiderate” clientele who (seemingly unknowingly) had taken up an extra 15 minutes of the store's time culminating in a purchase. What was different about these women in comparison with the man who spent an hour past closing looking for a Mother's Day gift? My first guess: they were black. Two L/XL black women who stay 15 minutes past close are “ignorant” whereas six XS women who stay 40 minutes past close are...just six XS women who stay past close.
If I were following this experiment to the T, that would mean that I would have to add another characteristic to Nelson's profile: subtle racism.
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