No doubt, some of you were baffled why select stores (such as ours) opened their doors on the slowest, sleepiest shopping day of the year.
For Wherehouse moguls, no holiday was too important, too sacred, to pass on raking the greenback. Stores did not close. Not for July 4th, not for Thanksgiving, not for Christmas. Corporate offices would be closed on Christmas day. Overlords would share quality time with loved ones. Store locations, however, and the computer helpless desk, were to remain open. Why? Because hoards of customers demanded thusly?
Think again, Farquar.
Two words: Video Rentals.
Customers assumed, innocently, that our store, and our sister stores, would be closed Christmas Day, that a grace period of one day would be extended. Clients failed to notice the fine print on their receipt. Video return - Due Date - December 25th. Because we were open, renters would owe late fees.
On December 26th, late fees would be imposed. Wherehouse, bastard descendant of Ebenezer Scrooge, would feel no remorse kicking Tiny Tim's crutch out from under him, then offering to "mend" it for him. God bless us, one and all.
Elf Help #5 - Exception Report
"Could you wait here for a couple of minutes?" John asked.
"No problem," I shrugged. John needed a witness. This wouldn't take too long. We waited for the temp hire to arrive.
The guy was early 20's, good looking. Agreeable, quiet, professional. Well mannered, first date behavior. Made a splendid impression on everyone. The Boss decided to assign him register training. Even there, he was a quick study. He caught on, didn't meltdown during crush periods. Definite plus during the holiday screening cycle. One or two Christmas folks usually were retained. He seemed a cinch.
Unfortunately he proved too quick a study.
And being a New Hire, no one mentioned the nightly Price Exception Report to him.
Where it revealed he was repricing CDs down to one penny.
"Ho ho ho, everyone!" He plopped his hat and coat on the floor. Clocked in.
"Care to explain this?" John pointed out a series of price alterations and discrepancies. New Hire's expression fell from happy holidays to perplexed to frantic concentration.
I braced for Bizarro Explanation #47, another jewel to write about.
Instead, he pushed away from the counter, sleek and composed. Strolled out the door, trotted across the parking lot, drove away.
Hat and coat on the floor sat on the floor, still warm.
Guess he thought cops would arrive any minute.
Never saw him again.
In February, The Boss donated the abandoned hat and coat to Goodwill.
For the third season in a row, I was opening manager, Pat was closer. Jacob worked with me, J D assisted Pat.
Many years earlier, I had been permanently banned from working Christmas Eve. I had closed down fifteen minutes early and had booted out a family who had strolled aimlessly for an hour. They had no intentions of buying. We were open, they were bored. I had young colleagues who wanted to be with family, not a herd of human livestock. To my surprise, the livestock complained. I earned lifetime New Years Day duty.
From the onset, I accepted Wherehouse's Christmas shift, in addition to permanent New Years Day. My family was Zelda and myself, we could delay our Christmas a few hours. Still, I made damn sure my Christmas day morning playlist included the Eazy-E classic ...
Merry Muthafuckin' Xmas.
Gloria
" ... shoes never did fit right and I shoulda taken them back. That store had the cutest guy on the planet and I coulda let him hold my feet all day. Now that I think about it, I gotta really bad secret that I ought to keep to myself, but I'm going woozy inside. I need to tell someone. Wait! How's my application coming? I want this job. Should I ask the manager? He doesn't like me. How much does it pay? Do we get to go to New York? Then I need new shoes. These really pinch. I think they're shrinking. Should they do that? Look! Do you wanna look at my feet? That guy that worked there, he was so ... "
"I swear to God," Stacey pulled me close, "if The Boss hires her, I will personally stab you dead."
"And I'll hold you so you can't run," added Pat.
"Me?" I flashed my blue eyes, innocently. "Don't involve me, please."
"You printed up the application for her," Pat said. "Then you helped her when she got stuck. Like FIRST NAME. I heard Gloria ask what's that mean?"
"Just because you like insane people doesn't mean we want to work with them," Stacey punched my shoulder. She and Pat walked off with a cartload of CDs.
" ... are you listening to me? I gotta really bad secret, and you're the only one around. So you wanna hear it or not?"
"Mmm ... I'll choose NOT." I gripped a handful of Christmas CDs and headed towards the holiday section.
Gloria clutched her purse against her chest and bounced after me, repeating louder, "I gotta bad secret."
Several customers glanced up, wondering if I was responsible for her secret. Cheers.
Gloria was slightly nuts, worsened by having no check switch. Whatever surfaced in her brain, streamed out her mouth. Her brain was endlessly active. She could be exhausting. Yet Pat and Stacey worried for naught. The Boss would never hire her. He had booted her from the store often.
Gloria had never bought one item from us. She had never had a job, she was poor, and lived with her brother who looked after her. I usually had scant use for poor types, but I liked Gloria. I went back to the Listening Center and sorted a new pile of discs. Gloria sat back down on a stool.
"So you wanna know my secret?"
"Does it involve crabs or lobsters?"
She ignored me. "I wanna baby for Christmas."
Mmm. Gloria was cute, but I'd never seen her with anyone other than her brother. Far be it from me to inquire if she understood "the facts of life." Maybe I should ask her about crabs and lobsters again.
"I need a boyfriend hookup," she continued. "I need a boyfriend quick, if I want this Christmas baby."
"Ahh."
"Do you know anyone looking for a girlfriend?" she asked.
"What about that cute shoe guy?" I replied. "I bet he's single. And he liked your feet."
"He did. He did! That's a great idea."
Gloria hopped off the stool, clutched her purse again, and scurried out the doors. The shoe man would never know what hit him.
I shouldn't have done that, but I had. I started humming to myself.
Feel This
Mandy was injured. I knew it, everybody knew it. She was not the stoical type. She'd hurt herself at work or at home. She told me, but I forgot. Aching bruise high on her ribs, on one side. Probably bumped into a dresser or stretched a muscle hoisting a couple gallons of milk.
Time was a little after lunch, Mandy was complaining, and I ... well ... I was less than sympathetic.
"What'd you expect when you attempt Position 27?"
"Huh? No! It wasn't that. Smartass."
Mandy was an ideal straight man, though I usually didn't torment her.
"No. I can feel something right here," she rubbed her side. "I think something's growing."
"Go to your doctor. They know you by sight, don't they?"
Boone was the first to comment that Mandy was borderline hypochondriac.
"I'll go later. Here, feel this."
"I don't know about that." I backed away, against the Listening Center counter.
"What's the matter with you?" She grabbed my hand and placed it against her side. "There! Don't you feel that?"
This could so easily be misconstrued.
Mandy had seized my bad hand, the one with nerve damage. I couldn't feel anything. Nothing out of the ordinary. Not that I ordinarily groped Mandy's ribcage.
"Hey! You two need a room?" Stacey walked past, grinning.
Damnit. I just knew --
"Worthy's just helping me out!" Mandy yelled.
"Looks like he's helping himself." Joe eased up behind us.
"No. It's my side, see?"
"If you say so."
She finally let go of my hand, and I dropped it.
"Think I'm gonna use that line next time I'm at the club," Joe said dryly.
"Here, feel this." Now she reached for Joe's hand.
"No way," he jumped back. "Bad enough you caught Worth-Dogg on camera, looking like he's squeezing your ... merchandise."
Security camera? I looked up. Shit.
"Smile, before Stacey punches that REWIND button in the Office and makes copies."
This manager learned a few tricks to erode revenue. December 24th, I gave Jacob implicit instructions.
Next morning, he and I parked away from the store, across the parking lot in front of Chinese Noodle Warrior. Prepped the store, loaded registers, unlocked doors, then parked ourselves at the Listening Bar. Very important, avoid the front.
After awhile, the prowl began.
Cars ventured onto the parking lot, then slowly cruised past our front windows. Paused. Always a solitary driver. Peering inside. True, we were unlocked, music played, we were open for business. To casual onlookers, however, we appeared closed. Drivers, one after another, sighed wearily, accelerated, and drove away.
Two hours passed by. Jacob and I hadn't had a single customer. No transactions. No sales. No money for corporate misers.
Meanwhile, I fielded all phone calls using my professional DJ voice.
"Holiday Greetings to you and yours from Wherehouse Music!"
Every call, prolonged silence followed by disconnecting click.
"Thank you - for calling!"
Needless to say, our numbers sucked. Hurst was terrible, Hulen was ghastly, Berry was nonexistent. Outside of California, stores hemorrhaged money. Except for those rentals.
Still, we couldn't maintain the dry run forever. Jacob's girlfriend brought him turkey lunch, and parked outside our front doors. I tried to get her to relocate her car, but she only planned to stay a second ... which became half an hour. Which holiday buzzards quickly noticed.
Normal
Just after Thanksgiving, one of the senior crew gave notice.
The Professor.
He had been with the store since the beginning of the Blockbuster Music era.
The Classical Room was now long gone. That corner was now devoted to Mexican music.
The Professor ran cash register, worked the Listening Center, stocked, smoked, complained, grumbled.
He grumbled a lot.
"I need to escape this monkey farm. I need a normal job with normal colleagues."
"Not on this planet, Dude."
"Our so-called Corporate owners are total imbeciles. Our customers are cretins. My coworkers are sex crazed, drug addicted, unthinking, DNA accidents. I deserve to work with, and work in proximity to, fellow well-adjusted human beings."
"Like yourself?" I scoffed. "Listen to me. The entire world is nuts. Lunatics on the loose, making decisions, major and petty. There is no normal."
The Professor ignored me. Or refused to believe me. He scoured the Classifieds, polished his Classical music credentials. Searched for ordinary employment positions with ordinary coworkers. And where there were no cabbage head customers.
Within weeks, he landed some interviews. And ... believe it or not ... he scored that new job.
Where his work résumé was perceived as an asset.
Oh, not that Beethoven - Wagner expertise. His retail experience.
His new assignment? The Gift Shop.
Employer? The City Zoo.
Hadn't he said something about monkey farm?
Traditional Christmas Day shoppers shuffled in.
Those shoppers were exclusively male.
Solitary.
Wanting to buy something special for that new hot girl who just moved in next door? That cute Dallas Cheerleader?
Wrong, little elf.
These were firmly in the "Unwanted Males" category.
No family. No girlfriend. No life. No pride.
Drones ejected from the hive.
Complete, total, sad sack, losers.
I'd viewed these anti social by-products for years. Jacob wasn't blind either, he told his girlfriend to observe.
Gents drifted between the aisles, pretending to shop. Took their time, not wanting to be obvious. Finally, they found their way to glistening skin and scented loins. The section they entered the store for in the first place.
Porn.
Looking for a Christmas girlfriend. O Come All Ye Faithful.
Such were the joys of retail.
Alas, Sarah, tormentor of porn boys everywhere, had departed for the realm of high finance.
Stenton
I'd known Stenton for years, even before I began working at Sound Warehouse in the 80's. His work could always be viewed during Gallery Night in the city. He was a talented man, though I don't know how successful.
During the Sound Warehouse era he visited the store every week. Came alone, or with his wife, or with their child. He was a Regular. Video regular. Regular or not, Pat didn't care for him. Stenton wasn't a "favorite." Truth to tell, Trina didn't care for him. Neither did Diana, Layla, Stacey, Amster. None of the ladies. There was a pheromone clash.
With Blockbuster, and their dismantling of our Video section, Stenton visited less frequently. When he did, he still alienated females. Kristi and Mandy, Angela and Sarah, GG-Licious and Molly. Not that it mattered. He was married, very married, and never flirted or hit on the girls.
Only now he wasn't married any longer.
Tragedy had upended his life.
Stenton was in the store, shopping for Christmas gifts. The girls, predictably, shunned him. I walked over.
Stenton had shed 40 lbs. He was lean, his shirt unbuttoned top four, large belt buckle. And a cowboy hat, which did not suit him. Nights revolved around the club world, Billy Bob's, Desperadoes, Cowboys. Whisky shots, bird doggin', buckle bunnies. He was my age. Old Guy At The Club. I couldn't tell him that.
He was lost.
We spoke five, ten minutes. I studied him, which I'm terrible for doing, gauging, analyzing, storing. He was dried out, half dead. I saw pain.
Stenton bought five Country albums. Popular chart toppers, with little substance.
He had been getting lucky at the clubs. But ... that really wasn't what he wanted.
I haven't seen him in the longest time now.
Elf Help #6 - Christmas Bitch
Habbadabba was 20. He was an ex bank manager. Also owned a liquor store, USED car lot, boat supply place. Ran a nightclub. In short, Habbadabba was full of shit. The Boss hired him because that banking reference was partially true. For a heartbeat, he had been a teller trainee, until it was discovered he couldn't count money accurately.
Our new lad was blonde, weighed 85 lbs, had a complexion that looked like he'd been ambushed by children with paintball rifles. Juggled two girlfriends because, "That's the kinda man I am." Reminded the Camp Bowie hotties he still had more than enough wick for potential girlfriends #3 and #4.
Store girls resisted the speckled torpedo.
Well ... most did ...
Habbadabba had caught Pat's eye. Those trivial money counting errors. $1.47 short, $3.84 over, $6.92 short.
"What? Just chill, girlfriend. I don't even balance my own checkbook. That's why I keep spare bush. You go with me, you flow with me."
Pat, uhhh ... no.
His comments deliberately provoked people. Especially females. "I like to get 'em juiced, bro. They slide, I glide."
I needed a tape recorder for this guy. Remember, 85 lbs of chronic acne, spewing mindless nonsense. Like watching an infection leak onto the table.
Oh, yeah, he made an impression with the females. Especially Pat. So it was no surprise after a couple of weeks ...
"That little twerp called me a bitch!"
"Say what?"
"Habberblabber. Told Stacey I was a bitch. Told Joe I was a bitch. Told Derek I was a bitch."
Of course those three relayed the bulletin back to Pat in a flash.
"Hmmm ... " I mused. "Sounds about right. You are a bitch."
"Oh, I'm so angry," Pat ignored me. "How dare he? How dare he!"
"Christmas bitch," I continued.
"See, that's the difference," she jabbed me in the chest. "I know you, and you know me. But him? 53 lbs of rat bait."
"This Christmas, ask Santa for something slinky in that red stocking. Tell Santa you want your very own Christmas bi -- Hey! Where're you going?"
Pat stormed off in a fury. Her temper rarely boiled over. I could tease her, call her Christmas bitch, because she wasn't. And because it was me. Then it was Joe ... Stacey ... J D ... The Boss ... Derek. Most of her friendly, understanding coworkers began antagonizing her.
Except for Habbadabba. Another week, he gave one day notice and fled for his life.
Two o'clock, Pat and J D rolled in. Business had picked up. Customers with gift cards, folks who couldn't wait for the sales that launched next week.
Pat removed the tunes we had been playing, alt rock and blues, and put on country and hip hop.
No one played Christmas music.
For people who were forced to work, the holiday was already over.
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