Coworkers: Part 63 - Christmas / Blockbuster Music

     Our first official Blockbuster Music Christmas throw dropped in October. Wasn't much. Enough for one bin. Three weeks passed. Gradually, stores realized what they had received back in October was it. Oh, we had plenty of top chart sellers, of catalog product. What we didn't have was Christmas music.
     The chain had been acquired by masters of the video sphere, and yet their buyers seemed clueless about holiday stocking. Specifically about Christmas music. The Distribution Center only stocked 100 Christmas titles. That was all Blockbuster ordered after their studies determined that was sufficient. The Boss started to worry, and phoned other stores. Managers noticed, complained to our new contacts, and were ignored.
     For those of you outside Retail Nation, Christmas music was free. Yes, we had to pay for it, but there were no "return" stipulations. Anything that was unsold in January could be sent back to the distributor, no questions, no hassle. It was free! Consequently, music stores carried tons of holiday music. Because someone might buy Terry Bradshaw's Sings Christmas Songs For The Whole World. We didn't have Mr. Bradshaw, by the way. Hell, we didn't have Bing Crosby, which sold year after year, decade after decade. Why? Blockbuster applied Video demographics to their Music division. Plus, they didn't want to bother with any returns.
     Sales would be affected. Where customers once searched through eight bins of Winter tunes, now there was one pathetic bin. No depth, no breadth. Customers would go elsewhere. That would affect profits, manager bonuses, payroll. Reduced payroll would affect all employees during the next year.
     We had been purchased by The Grinch.

Ear Wigs

     Old lady waving a list. Classic type who needed assistance. I walked up and asked if she wanted help.
     She wasn't in the least demented. Her list was organized and subdivided. CLOTHING - FOOD - CANDY - MOVIES - MUSIC - WINE - TOYS.
     Too bad we didn't sell wine. That would improve work attitudes.
     Her music knowledge had stalled around 1979, and it took us several minutes to decipher her interpretations of the grandchildren's requests. We carried everything on her memo. Radio fare, nothing unusual. Within five minutes, we'd found all eight albums.
     Next, movies. She had scribbled Blockbuster. Our partners in synergy. Screw them. I started tracking down titles. We had six out of eight. Plus, she grabbed two on impulse. More for us!
     Toys included accessories. Music head telephones (headphones), walking mans (walkmans).
     And ear wigs.
     "They might have said ear bugs," she smiled at me.
     "Rubber worms?" I asked.
     "Bugs children stuff in their ears."
     John breezed past. Without even pausing, he said, "Ear buds."
     That's why John was a manager.

Elf Help #3 - Lissa

     Lissa was a minor celebrity in Como. No idea who or what she was in that neighborhood. Customers rolled in and it was, "Lissa! My God, you working here, girlfriend?" or "Wasn't that you and Donnell hosting that charity event?" or "Where am I gonna catch you again?"
     Lissa hired on to run register, help out at the Listening Center. I thought she did OK. Cash drawer errors were within limits, and she was genuinely helpful and upbeat.
     Where she ran into problems was the dress code.
     The hat.
     Lissa absolutely, categorically, refused to remove the hat, or the scarf, or the bandana. The Boss hounded her, Stacey, and especially manager trainee, Leroy.
     Leroy was ex-military and accustomed to chain-of-command. Lissa was a one girl mutiny.
     "This is who I am! My hat, my headwear, is my signature. My people expect me to showcase."
     Blockbuster did not allow hats. They were expressly forbidden in the dress code. When Blockheads inspected, or merely dropped in to shop, they noticed and they commented. Blockheads loved to comment. They were authoritarian know-it-all's, forever reminding you, "I'm right, I'm always right."
     Mind you, Lissa's accessories were classy. Even with the depressing khaki and blue uniform, Lissa managed to look like a fashion contestant.
     This became a game. Managers ensured Lissa departed the Office, onto the Floor, sans hat.
     Lissa, meanwhile, had already left the hat in the Register area. Soon as she slammed in her cash drawer, the hat was pinned on.
     She invariably had her way.

Music Appreciation

     The Professor always possessed a proselytizing streak. When I was still Classical Manager, he often brought in homemade newsletters and asked if he might distribute them in the section. I never minded. I had known The Professor, slightly, for years. The cultural community of Cowtown wasn't extensive at that time. His essays were always 6 - 8 typed pages, stapled, and devoted to a classical music topic. This was a labor of love for him, writing with little chance of recognition or financial reward. He always left his name, address, and phone number, in case readers wanted to phone or write him. I never did, I suspect no one else did.
     During the holidays, The Professor decided to initiate "music appreciation" lectures. Called it Classical Commentary. Host and featured speaker, his own self. Pilot topic, Mahler.
     The Professor posted flyers in the Classical Room, at the Listening Center, and on the community corkboard in the alcove. Passed the word to all souls who wandered into the Classical Room. Even got The Boss to shell $10 from Petty Cash to buy drinks and nibbles for the hungry, thirsty mob he envisioned.
     Two nights later ... two attendees. L Harper and friend. L had been a steady Regular of mine for years, and a heavy buyer. She listened agreeably to insights of Mahler's technical mastery, and munched a couple of crackers. Her friend fell asleep.
     The Professor later remarked that Mahler had been too "heavy."
     Next week, Bruckner.
     Two pupils. L and friend. The friend fell asleep.
     The Professor, fearing termination of his outreach lectures, opted for the lowest common denominator approach, and scheduled Tchaikovsky's "Nutcracker".
     No one attended. Well ... not at first.
     Trina felt sorry for The Professor. She coerced Stacey, and the two of them listened politely, finished the soft drinks, ate all the cookies.
     Afterward, Classical Commentary came to a permanent close.


  
 
 
  
  


     There was a backdoor to our meager holiday stocking. We could refill our own. Working that backdoor was tricky, however. Perhaps dangerous.
     We had special ordered customer requests for years. With the new regime, we expanded those "requests" greatly.
     Todd had been Video Manager for sell-through titles. After he departed, I took over his job, maintaining the VHS, Laserdisc, and DVD formats. Saturdays, I sat on the floor behind the main file server, and keyed in huge orders by phone. Our Video section was more extensive than other stores, but our sell through was tops in the District, tops in the Region, tops in the chain.
     One of the exclusives we carried was a bull riding documentary filmed by The Boss's nephew. This title simply did not exist in Blockbuster's database. The Boss got the film into the store and we sold hundreds of copies. The barcodes we generated to sell it, impacted Blockbuster's national numbers. We certainly didn't tell them. Blockheads would simply tell us to stop, that customers would never purchase some video about bull riding.
     The Boss operated Camp Bowie like it was still Peaches. Very independent. And if an employee found a method to make money, or get product in the store, especially Christmas product, he'd either say, "Go for it," or look the other way.
     Blockbuster had cast them off, and didn't use them. They were an all but forgotten local vendor. And I still had a working contact number for them.
    Big State.

Absolutely, Positively Guaranteed

     Noon. I'm still waiting for the damn UPS delivery. Holiday delays, you say? Wrong, little elfling. Business deliveries have priority during the day, residential deliveries in the late afternoon and early evening. Worse, today was not an isolated incident. The man in brown had been tardy for two weeks now. What happened?
     Think holiday magnanimity.
     One of his fellow drivers had complained to Dispatch about his cargo load. "Ma, it's too much!"
     Normally, those whines didn't work. To be fair, his residential drops had increased exponentially. Fellow drivers divvied up half of his business drops ... only for December.
     Drivers, to my understanding, were allotted three minutes per address. Now, select guys were brilliant at time management. Spent thirty seconds at a dozen addresses and they'd saved 10 - 15 minutes. Minutes they might use elsewhere.
     Our regular UPS driver had rescued his overloaded Union brother by picking up five establishments.
     Sinbad's, Illusions, Rick's Place, New Orleans Nites, Baby Dolls.
     Strip clubs.
     Apparently, lunch festivities commenced at 11:00 AM because of the holidays.
     And our driver? Well, he had those 10 - 15 minutes.
     Took him that long for his eyes to adjust in those dark environments.
     Plus, he moved really slow sometimes.
     Didn't want to drop those packages.

Holiday Stalking

     Kristi had an unexpected admirer.
     From out of the blue, a customer had begun asking her out. Kristi was a very attractive blonde, and males approached her constantly.
     "Goes with the hair," she laughed. "Most of you guys aren't too bright to begin with, these blonde tresses kinda make you blinder and dumber."
     Anyway, this particular candidate was a steady client, and long time Regular. Came in every single Tuesday, New Release Day.
     Then he began showing up evenings. Near closing time.
     "Aren't you married?" she demanded.
     "Yeah ... Why? You got a problem with that?"
     "Hello. Don't you maybe think your wife coulda / woulda have a problem with your cattin' about?"
     "She's pregnant right now."
     Kristi had been inclined towards a polite, "No, thank you."
     Now she favored the more plebeian, "Fuck you." But that wasn't how Kristi was raised, so she did her best to ignore him.
     The Regular began stalking. Sent flowers, sent candy. Clarified his offer, which was a couple of hours romp in a quality hotel.
     The whole store knew her plight. The Boss considered banning the Regular, but was reluctant because he was an excellent customer. This seemed a mid-life crisis, maybe he'd get past it. We warned Kristi when his car arrived, she hid in the back. If she got trapped on the Floor, we buddied up with her. Mandy and she were very tight, and Mandy was never one to contain her temper.
     Still, most of us couldn't help ourselves. Supported her one moment, tormented her the next. Made jokes about stocking stuffing, magic mistletoe delight, slippery sleigh rides, hotel holidays, and the ever popular, water weenie.


            

Grand Street Cryer

     Tim worked with us a year, perhaps less. Like many later hires, he would have been a better fit, and been happier, if he worked in the Sound Warehouse era. Wasn't the hand he was dealt, though.
     When he first began, he was irritated and cranky. He definitely mellowed after awhile. I knew his previous band, Cream Of Mushroom, was a noisy, grunge imitating unit. That scene didn't suit him. Never asked what his story was. Most people share or blurt, Tim was private.
     Just as the holiday season got underway, Tim sat down with The Boss and gave notice.
     He had formed a new band, Grand Street Cryers, and didn't think he could launch a group, rehearse, tour, perform, etc ... and still work at Camp Bowie.
     Too bad, Tim was a good guy. Still, you want friends to chase their dreams.
     From time to time, I caught one of his shows downtown. I'd wave, we rarely spoke.

*
     Big State had been the unofficial indie vendor for Sound Warehouse. We were their main, almost exclusive client. Our new owners viewed indie vendors as unnecessary, redundant, and shifted back catalog to national outfits like Valley. Yet Big State was still around, limping, hurting, with a warehouse of CDs and no buyers.
     Anne had been my contact for a couple of years. She appraised me that while Blockbuster buyers had ceased ordering from them, individual store accounts remained in good standing. Anne, who worked on commission, reassured me she could fill any and all Camp Bowie Christmas orders.
     The next day, I received a Big State Christmas catalog. The Boss, Dan, John all flipped through the pages. Notes were scribbled. Santa's Wish List. Artists - Titles - Quantities. Throughout the following weeks, an individual phoned Anne, and order after order after order was placed. Seasonal titles, gaps in the Top 100, obscure requests.
     We didn't get everything, you never did. We received enough, though.
     The Christmas cavalry arrived. Big State bailed out Camp Bowie. As always, the holiday bins sold in a frenzied lather. Our numbers rocked.
     Likewise for Big State. Our store, then sister stores who realized where we got our goodies from, late in December, had given Big State a very merry, very profitable season.
     Their last.
     Next season, Big State would be gone.


  
 
 
  
  
  


Telephone Medic

     "Stop it! Stop it right now!" Stacey screamed into the phone.
     She was having "relationship issues." Stacey was volatile, and she never formed relationships with mousy types. Well, she did have a pack of guys who skipped after her like peewee puppies, but those didn't factor.
     No, she was screaming into the phone, her girlfriend was screaming right back. I didn't know what the argument was, didn't care. Donut preferences, chocolate versus glazed. Who was more committed? Who lost the Front 242 CD? Like I wrote, the fight didn't matter.
     What I worried about was the phone.
     And I was not alone.
     "Quit screaming! Do you hear me? Quit screaming!"
     Stacey pounded the telephone receiver into the box. And smashed, and smashed.
     The handle, designed of durable black plastic for a lifetime of abuse, began to break apart.
     Damn.
     Three had already been destroyed that way. Why couldn't Stacey wage those wars at home? Must've already shattered those phones.
     During a recent manager meeting at Corporate HQ in Dallas, The Boss had appropriated several phones from empty offices. He had issued a standing order to hide the Office phone from Stacey if she was in a furious state. We weren't always quick enough.

Elf Help #4 - Midnight

     She was a creature of size. I wouldn't say fat, just big. Big boned, sturdy, carried a lot of weight, but she was still young and she moved lightly.
     Midnight had thick black hair that spilled down her back. Wore the mandatory khaki pants and blue knit shirt. Black bandana, black boots, black sweatshirt completed her wardrobe.
     Despite the weight, Midnight was a pretty girl. Shy. Followed instructions, didn't loaf, didn't bring problems to work, didn't talk with us. Coworkers began to focus on that black ensemble of hers, however. Initial assumption to the contrary, Midnight was not the Goth type. From time to time, we worked with Goth Girls, but Midnight didn't live the life. Besides, her outfit was not black enough. Everything she wore was faded through. Her clothes had been around.
     The girls noticed first. Mandy, Pat, Shawna, Angela. Midnight wore the same ensemble day after day. Week after week. Not merely the same uniform, but the same clothes. Consensus grew that she never changed them. Never washed them. Never removed them.
     After that notion took root, several coworkers made the logical progression to personal hygiene. Bathing, washing. Lack thereof.
     One or two girls commented on how fortunate I was, not having a sense of smell. I didn't, so I have no knowledge.
     None of us ever knew Midnight. Was she homeless? Did she live in poverty? Was there a family? A boyfriend? Did someone hold her? Did she sleep alone in a car every night?
     When Christmas was over, Midnight was let go.
     No one ever saw her again.

Love Child

     Since October, Edward had grown insufferable. New girlfriend. Spelled L-O-V-E. Only because "love" required less letters than "satisfaction," which more pointedly described Ed's relationship. The couple had met during classes, began dating, progressed to advanced studies.
     Misty.
     "What should I get Misty for Christmas? I don't want to look cheap, but I don't want her to think I'm totally crazy.
     "We went to the movie last night ... forget which one .. and it was the greatest film ever. Know why? Cause I was with ...
     "Misty made the most amazing macaroni and cheese dinner last night. My whole life! Ever!
     "If we get married, we could name our children using the letters of our first names. So cool."
     Duct tape, please. Croquet mallet -- stand back.
     Tuesday evening, Edward's fantasy future had vaporized.
     Several fraternity brothers had given Edward a crash course on his girlfriend. Whom three of the guys knew better than Ed realized.
     "Yeah, Misty. She gave me a stubborn case of -- "
     "Misty, also known as Miss S-T-D, bud."
     "Might be smart to see the campus doctor. Check out the old equipment."
     "I dunno, man. He'll shove a probe up the snake."
     "What do you mean ... probe?"
     Two days later, Edward had scheduled a terrifying appointment with his family doctor. By then, he had already terminated his relationship, and future offspring, with Misty.
     On the bright side, he confessed, "Well, one less gift for me to buy."

*

     Admittedly, I ordered a lot of items during the year, and especially that initial Blockbuster Christmas. The craziest thing I ordered, bar none, was the entire Three Stooges catalog.

     I simply ordered one each of every single Three Stooges available. VHS, Laserdisc, Box Sets, a tin with peanuts and a video inside. Who cared? It was Christmas! We ought to be able to sell them. They were the Stooges! Guys would buy them. Women would buy them for guys. Didn't matter if the guy was 4 or 54. Guys didn't outgrow the Stooges. They were hardwired into our DNA.
     The Boss laughed, then scattered them throughout the store, especially at front counters. When he chatted with other managers, he mentioned our status as Stooge Central, and how well they were selling. There really were a lot. Like 50 or 60 items. I went completely overboard.
     By Christmas week, though, the Stooges had completely sold through.
     Nyuk nyuk.

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