P is for People You Encounter in Retail

When I worked at the Big Fancy Resort, I interacted with a wide array of people, most of whom clearly had personality disorders and deeply ingrained emotional issues.  Many of them were literal embodiments of stereotypes that I previously didn't believe existed in real, flesh-and-blood life.  Here is a nifty guide for properly identifying some of the common people you will encounter in a place such as the Big Fancy Resort, and what to expect from them.

Tacky Rich Lady

Identifying Features:  Despite having all the advantages a rich husband and/or divorce settlement can buy, still manages to look like a train wreck.  Never met an animal print she didn't like.  Sequins are the staple of her wardrobe.  Gravitates toward the hideous items you thought were never going to sell.  Tries on everything in the store five times in front of the mirror because of crippling self-doubt.  Perpetually annoyed facial expression.

Frequently Asked Questions:  Does this look good on me?  Is this on sale?

Enjoys:  Dieting; tanning salons; amassing credit card debt.

Hates:  Animal cruelty; earth tones.

Embittered Career Woman

Identifying Features:  Spent years clawing and backstabbing her way to the top only to discover that she still hates herself.  Hasn't slept more than four consecutive hours in over a decade. 

Frequently Asked Questions:  Winners don't ask questions.  Winners make demands.

Enjoys:  Berating service personnel; waiting for her Botox to kick in; finding new ways to deprive her ex-husband of joy.

Hates:  Laughter; youth.

GIRLS NIGHT!

Identifying Features:  Raucous and full of margaritas, these ladies will ransack your store in a matter of minutes.  The moment one of them asks you a question, her friend will interrupt because she found something SO CUTE.  As soon as you finish ringing up one of their purchases, the others will convince her to exchange one of the items for something completely different.

Frequently Asked Questions:  Are you sure you don't have four more of these in the back somewhere?  Are you sure you handed my credit card back to me?  It's okay if we have our drinks in here, right?

Enjoy:  Mani-pedis; chocolate; "retail therapy"; giggling; backhanded compliments.

Hate:  Exes; their children (secretly).

Confused Tourists

Identifying Features:  Wandered here after being told they "HAD to see the Big Fancy Resort" before they left Asheville.  Have been trying to find the bathroom for three hours.  Cannot grasp why everything is so expensive.  Endlessly fascinated by every "fancy" detail.

Frequently Asked Questions:  Why is everything so expensive?  Can we tour the spa?

Enjoy:  Free parking; buffet-style dining; air conditioning.

Hate:  Walking; standing in the sun for any length of time; all these kids walking around with weird haircuts.

Emasculated Husband

Identifying Features:  Sends you an apologetic glance after his wife throws a tantrum in your store, but for the most part, all traces of personality withered away long ago.  Now spends his days trudging doggedly under the weight of purses and shopping bags, only vaguely aware of his surroundings. 

Frequently Asked Questions:  Can I get that on the rocks?

Enjoys:  Days when his wife needs some "girl time"; imagining the sweet release of death.

Hates:  Opening his credit card bills; waking up in the morning.

Persnickety Older Man

Identifying Features:  Rare but to be dreaded, this man rivals even the bitchiest of women.  Specifically wants mauve pants.  Longs to return to a simpler time when sales clerks would shine his shoes for a nickel.

Frequently Asked Questions:  Why does everything in here have your logo on it?  Why would I want to wear your logo?  Don't you know of any places in town that have mauve pants?  Isn't that your job?

Enjoys:  Mani-pedis; scoffing; freshly ironed chinos.

Hates:  The riffraff this resort is letting in these days; open-toed shoes.

~*~

I hope this has been educational and informative.  And remember, if you were particularly offended by one of the portraits, that just means you are that person. 

Tweet

L is for Lizzie

I had been working in the gift shops at the Big Fancy Resort for a year when Lizzie was hired.

Lizzie was about my age.  She had long, straight hair that she occasionally wore in a side braid.  She lived in Montford with some roommates.  Every day she brought bizarre snacks related to her detox cleanse.  One day it was a quart of water, lemon juice, and ginger.  Another day she had a plastic container of cashews submerged in water.  She explained the medicinal purposes of these snacks in her signature slow monotone.

None of the gift shop clerks were quite sure what to think of Lizzie.

Lizzie counted her cash drawer twice at the beginning of each shift and twice again at the end.  On the night shift, she would leave rambling, urgent-sounding notes for the morning clerk to find.  Sometimes the clerks read these to each other for entertainment purposes.

A woman was here looking for a gift for her boss's daughter's best friend.  She was so nice.  We talked for a long time.  Her favorite food is watermelon!  She did not find a gift.  I really hope she finds one.  If she comes back, show her the journals because I totally forgot to show her those and she might have liked them.  Tell her I said hi.  I hope you have an excellent day! 

Lizzie once left a co-worker a five-minute-long voicemail thanking her for swapping shifts and elaborating upon what a kind deed that was.  Another co-worker found her meticulously lining the sales counter with dozens of perfectly measured squares of tape.

The Big Fancy Resort was not exactly known for its amiable clientele.  A typical customer would not even let you say, "Hi, how are y--" before barking "JUST LOOKING" and proceeding to not make eye contact with you ever.  Others would ask for help finding some vague item--a popular request was, "I need the perfect gift for this person I don't know anything about at all"--and then dismiss all your suggestions with an exasperated, "No, not that."  At the other extreme, some people would bring you the most generic item possible--a cheap scarf made in China, a ring imbedded with oversized plastic rhinestones, a nightlight shaped like a daisy--and say, "Tell me more about this," as though expecting a touching backstory involving an underprivileged Cambodian orphan who overcame the odds and started her own rhinestone factory using only organic, sustainable materials.

These people were spoiled, cranky, demanding, entitled, and petulant.  And they loved Lizzie.

They loved her because she would launch into a ten-minute speech praising anything they displayed even the slightest interest in.  She would extoll the most trivial item as though it contained hidden wonders.  She was oblivious to curt tones and rude remarks. 

One day I walked in to find Lizzie brandishing her plastic container of cashews and water in front of two customers, who were listening raptly.

The managers were thrilled with all the positive comments guests left about her.  We had so much fun talking to Lizzie!  Lizzie was so helpful!  Lizzie was extremely knowledgeable!

Lizzie and I bonded unexpectedly one baumy night in early autumn.  We closed one of the stores together, and just as we were ready to leave, we noticed a moth fluttering around one of the lights.

I looked up at the moth, batting its dusty wings against the imitation Craftsman light fixture.  It had drifted into this place on an ill-fated air current, and now it would be trapped here until it shriveled into a dry husk and died.

I helped Lizzie pursue the moth around the empty store until she finally caught it.  She carried it downstairs to the employee entrance, cupped between her hands, and I opened the door so she could release it into the night.  We watched it beat a jagged path through the heavy air until it disappeared in the buzzing orange glow of a streetlight.

Not long after that, Lizzie left the key to her cash drawer lying unattended in the break room and got fired.  I envied her.  She was set free, like the moth.

Tweet

The Time I Got Food Poisoning on Christmas Eve

In December 2008, I'd just started my job at the Big Fancy Resort.  I had to work on Christmas Eve and the day after Christmas, so it was the first time I wouldn't be spending Christmas with my family in Alabama.

I was especially dreading my Christmas Eve shift on barista duty.  I never had any desire to become a barista, but the gift shops I was working in also happened to contain a coffee shop under the same management, so they decided to use the same staff for both.  I don't even drink coffee, but I needed this job to pay for my expensive apartment, so I tried really, really hard to become the best barista ever.

During my training, I tried to stress that I knew nothing about coffee.

Unfortunately, I don't think they realized just how ignorant I was about coffee-related matters.

For example, this is exactly what I was told regarding caffeinated versus decaf.

Then one day, someone ordered a regular coffee, so I cheerfully poured it from a pot on the left burner.

Someone had put the decaf on the wrong side, and apparently I was the only person in the world who didn't know decaf goes in an orange pot.

I tried to explain the situation to the customer, but he didn't see the humor in it.

So I still wasn't feeling very confident in my barista skills when I showed up for my Christmas Eve shift in the coffee shop.

Luckily, there weren't many customers that night, and things were going well--until I took my dinner break.

The Big Fancy Resort had an employee cafeteria.  The food wasn't very good, but it was free, and the break wasn't long enough to drive anywhere else for food.  That night, though, the food in the cafeteria sounded especially awful.

I decided to just have a bowl of cereal.  The milk came from one of those weird contraptions with a lever and a spout.

It was that kind of extremely crappy skim milk that tastes like water gone terribly, terribly wrong.

I can't prove that what followed was directly related to the devil-milk I ingested.  All I know is that from the moment I ate that cereal, things deteriorated rapidly.

As soon as I returned from my break and my co-worker left for the night, my stomach started feeling like it was full of rocks.  Boiling hot, angry rocks that were determined to eat their way through my intestinal lining. 

At that point, everyone was gone--there was no night manager, and I was the only one working in the coffee shop.  If you needed a bathroom break on the night shift, you were supposed to call the security office and have them send someone to watch your store.  So as a torrent of molten lava accumulated in my digestive tract, I dutifully dialed the security extension and tried to sound nonchalant as I asked for a bathroom break.

I don't think the security officers really viewed bathroom breaks as one of their more important responsibilities.

When I finally got my bathroom break, I knew I probably had either food poisoning or some kind of stomach virus.  I hadn't had many jobs prior to this, and I had no idea what to do.  I thought about calling one of my managers and saying I was sick, but I was afraid they'd think I was faking so that I could go home early on Christmas Eve, and no one was going to come in at 8:00 PM to cover the rest of the night shift. 

So I returned from my bathroom break and worked the rest of my shift with food poisoning.

I got sick several more times, but I was too embarrassed to keep calling security for bathroom breaks, so I started waiting until I didn't see any customers nearby and then running down the hall to the bathroom.

The biggest problem, however, was the crippling stomach cramps.  It felt like something was trying to claw its way out of my intestines.  There was also the slight problem that whenever someone ordered a latte or cappuccino, the smell of hot, steaming milk made me want to vomit.

To conserve my strength, I spent all my time between customers (when I wasn't sneaking into the bathroom) slumped behind the counter in some kind of desperate anti-diarrheal yoga pose.  When I heard someone walk in, I poured all my energy and willpower into acting like a perky barista who wasn't nauseated by the smell of warm milk and didn't feel like her insides were exploding.

My shift finally ended at 10:00 PM and I dragged myself back to my apartment.  I don't remember much after that, other than becoming quite intimate with my toilet at four in the morning.  By the next day, my insides were basically empty.  For some reason, in my depleted, slightly-feverish state, I became convinced that I absolutely had to eat some broth or I would die.  Unfortunately, as I rifled through my closet-sized kitchen, all I found were frozen dinners and something that probably used to be a vegetable.

I was also severely dehydrated, but the city water in my apartment building tasted like recycled pool water, and the plastic container of distilled water I'd bought at the grocery store was empty, so I spent all day microwaving ice cubes.

Future Hubs called to check on me at one point.  I asked him to bring me broth and water.  He drove all over town, but no stores were open.  That's when I remembered it was Christmas.  I think I eventually found some rice in the dark recesses of an upper cabinet and ate that, but I had become so fixated on broth that I might as well have forced myself to eat gravel.  (The next day, even though I felt much better, I still went to the store and bought some broth, just to spite the universe.  Then as I was finally eating it, I remembered broth doesn't actually taste very good, but I finished the whole carton, because damn it, broth is what sick people are supposed to eat.)

And thus my first Christmas as a grown-up with my own apartment was spent pretty much like this:

Tweet