The Boys Department
Installment 1
For the past several years I've read in the news that teenagers are finding
it hard to compete for summer jobs (I'd cite sources but have yet to read an
article in the Washington Post and then find it online).
This got me thinking, in a David Sedaris sort of way, about my work experiences as a teen. Did tending french fry baskets at McDonald's
and wiping facial oil off telephone earpieces in office buildings render me
employable?
Like most teenagers I knew I left
babysitting behind to work at the mall.
Using stringent selection criteria I chose
Livonia Mall because it contained the soft pretzel stand I loved to visit when shopping with my mom as a little girl. Sears was an anchor store there and I landed a job working between
nine and 12 hours a week in the children's department. I met people from
all walks of life, some of whom I was relieved to see keep on walking.
In the 80’s Back to School sales started in August, not June,
so customers arrived in a blitz. The navy blue pants popular with parochial school
boys sold out in a flash. Sears never ordered more so the shelves remained
barren for weeks. It was the moms who worked out to Jane Fonda who emerged from the racks victoriously clutching the last pairs of Toughskins.
One mommy-come-lately was apoplectic. She accused me of
hiding inventory in the stock room for the benefit of friends and family. Yes,
lady, my minimum wage job at Sears was a front for a more lucrative black
market parochial school uniform business. Why else would I tolerate a job where
little boys use the fitting room as a urinal?
I spent most of my time on the floor rehanging and refolding clothes, but I also worked the CAC, or Central Aisle Cashier, station. As the name suggests, we stood corralled in the middle of the department, a beacon for customers in need of therapists. Working the register was easy, so long as
merchandise had tags and customers didn’t pay with Mastercard or Visa.
“What? You only accept cash, Discover and American Express? Are you serious?”
“Sears owns Discover. It’s the only card to give you cash back. And my name’s not Serious.”
I tried to be sympathetic but the lines could
get long, especially at Christmas. Some
nights I wouldn’t get home until 10pm with homework still looming. Like a member of the proletariat, I regurgitated the Roebuck line and daydreamed about easier ways to earn spending money. May I help the next customer in line?
Next installment – Infants Department
