Confessions of the Department Store anti-hero.
By. Skye Adams
What i am, is not a nice person. I'm a selfish, heartless being. I could care less about you or your family. I don't think your children are cute, but i'll smile and pretend like they are. I sit here behind the department's counter, the sleeping registers behind me, and i smile and say hello when you walk in, but only because i have to. Really, I'm staring through you into space, at the merchandise arranged in an eye appealing manner on various tables and shelves.
In the back of my mind I'm saying, "If you're not going to buy anything then get the fuck out."
I'm saying, "that is the ugliest coat anyone has ever spent $2000 for."
I'm saying, "don't you dare open and unfold that 500 thread count 100% Pima Cotton sheet with hemline detail. I can tell you right now, you don't want it."
When duvet covers only come in one color and cost $400, you know 99% of lookers aren't buyers. People ask me questions and i just bullshit them. At 17-years-old, i don't care about mattress heights, box springs, or if the elephant brooch pillow contains any lead. Instead of being ethical and telling the truth, I've begun to just tell people what they want to hear.
When a mouse of a woman takes half-an-hour deciding wether or not to buy some decorative silver pine cones on major sale for $3.50, I say, "Yes, those would look great on your mantel." I don't say, if your house is a combination of old-home cabin fever and retro-shiek. Also known as a bad combination. I always dance around their questions with suggestive phrases disguised as answers. Eventually they come to their own conclusion.
I see people walking down the tiled walkway that separates the departments and I'm thinking, "don't you dare come in here. I can tell you right now that you will walk in and look blindly at the intensely over-prices merchandise and then oh-so-subtly you will browse over to the reduced price section and ultimately, you will leave empty handed."
It's only the incredibly rich and snobby that are willing to buy the bed set that comes to $2050. Those people are the worst. I hate all of these people. I want to wave my hands in front of their faces and scream," Hello?!! The things you own end up owning you! Can you hear me!?!"
I want to save these people from their feverish need to spend. The ability to purchase a $900 purse isn't something you should be proud of. And wishing you were able to buy a $900 purse isn't any better. Either way, the product is you, not the purse. You are what you eat, not what you wear.
Zombie isn't the right word, but it's the first word that comes to mind.
When my shift becomes slow and starts to drag I start to write little inspirational notes and secretly tuck them into the folds of pillow shams and the pockets of designer handbags, as well as other pricey items that our store supplies. I leave them there for the consumer to find and read.
Fortune cookie isn't the right word, but it's the first word that comes to mind.
Notes like, Don't let the world tell you who you are. Sane or insane. Saints or sadists. Heros or victims. Be who you want to be, not what the world wants you to be.
Notes like, There's more to life than ESPN and MTV. Open your eyes and watch anything but FOX News.
And notes like, 500 kids die every month working in the factories of war-torn countries just so you can have this one drastically expensive sweater-vest.
Most of these notes are never found and go unnoticed into the trash. But every once in a while a note must be found and the finder becomes either enlightened or enraged. Depending on the content of the note. To cover my own ass I usually leave them in the merchandise of other departments. That way the customer gets angry at their manager, not mine... therefore, I remain employed.
What I am, is not a normal person. When business is slow I'll juggle deco balls and hope one breaks. I'll make a sign that says, "Hi Camera!" and hold it up for the guys behind the door of the operator booth can see. They know me, though we've never met. They never tattle on my little shenanigans, like making faces behind the backs of customers, or sitting on the countertops. We have a bond. The kind of bond that only a bored cashier could have with a fisheye camera lense.
They know I'm a good student, they know i don't care about Jimmy Choo shoes or Juicy Couture tops. They can see me through their fisheye lense doing my homework and wearing ballet flats bought at Target. They know that even with a discount, I would never buy anything from here. They know I pick my nose just to see if anyone will notice. Me and them, we're cool. Tight.
Friend isn't the right word, but it's the first that comes to mind.
One might ask, "If you hate it so much, why not quit?"
It's because the money is just too good. When someone buys a $4000 bed and you are paid on commission, the sale tends to be in your favor. Even though such transactions are rare, it's still worse faking a smile.
This isn't all that I do. This was a taste, a free sample. Call it a forward, a prologue. I hope to expand on the topic of my occupation in my quaint Home Goods department of this high end department store. Maybe I'll write a novel?
What I am, is not a good person. I'm a liar. There won't be any novel. I lead you on and then take it all away, like teasing a dog with a biscuit. No need to scour the shelves of your local Barnes & Nobel. I never finish anything I start. They guys behind the fisheye know this too.
Failure isn't the right word, but it's the first word that comes to mind.
