Coworkers: Part 82 - Blood For Drugs

     The store was convinced Winston was stealing. Not piddly, random thefts, like nicking a bottle of water without paying, "borrowing" a used CD, then forgetting to return it. Boosting was happening on a major scale. Every week there was shrink of 20 - 40 units. New Release DVD's. Action or Comedy blockbusters. Managers could not pin down who took them, but we knew when they were snatched.
     Days when Winston worked.
     All Managers cast a reluctant eye on him. His hours had been trimmed to 8 per week. He worked second jobs, but two employers had fired him already. Drug buddies found him a job moving furniture; a future appearance in a COPS episode seemed inevitable. All the guys were serious users, Winston part and parcel.
     In my opinion most people messed with drugs, experimented with drugs, or had personal problems with drugs at one time or another. By most people, I mean 90% or higher. Controlled substances, alcohol, nicotine, reefer, prescription medication, pain killers, sleeping pills, happy pills, call 'em what you will. For some souls drugs lost their allure, while others sank deeper in their thrall.
     In-store stoners were generally male, while most boozers were female. The majority of girls could easily drink the gents under the table.
     Winston descended from weed to speed to ice. In a fabulous incident, he and friends were driving to the blood bank to sell plasma. Sticky red pints. Enroute, their car broke down on the highway. One of them got it running, then noticed a flat tire. Spare was pulled, flat removed, and then ... both tires rolled down the embankment and splashed into the river. A passenger who raced down hill in pursuit, fell and broke his wrist. Meanwhile, the tires floated downstream, soon to be claimed by gulls and turtles.
     The guys abandoned the car and hitch hiked towards town. Luck returned her fickle attentions, and a flatbed truck offered four dirty, homeless looking bums a ride. The broken wrist was mended in Emergency, courtesy the taxpayer's dime (in case you wondered where your tax dollars go, Pilgrim). Bum squad scurried to the blood bank, sold their polluted goo, bought meth, scrambled home.
     "Because I was dehydrated, because my bloodstream was low flow, I had the bestest high ever. I thought I was dead, it was wet dream awesome."
     None of those tweakers earned enough to maintain a habit. They couldn't peddle blood for drugs anytime soon. They were cash strapped.
     Furniture went missing when they worked their other job. DVD's went missing when Winston worked at ours.
     Whoever was boosting was notoriously lazy. And stupid.
     They stole primarily from the large end-caps and cardboard displayers. I hatched a plan with Mandy and Pat. Emptied out the cardboard displayers and taped huge red X's on the back interior. Reloaded the DVD's and angled them towards the Listening Center. I then climbed the ladder and began realigning a surveillance camera towards the traps. Pat and Mandy shouted directions until everything was just right. The trap was set. Once a box was emptied, those red X's would jump out. We could rewind security videos and make the bust.
     We did not want to do this. No one, from The Boss down, liked the situation. Yet store shrink in DVD's and games had drawn the eye of the Loss Prevention division.
     The plan never worked.
     Overnight, the stealing stopped. Radar, guardian angel, inheritance. Who knows?
     Winston's hours were cut to 4. Then to every other week. Finally, once a month. This was The Boss's usual method. Keep people on the payroll, but chop hours until they were forced to find work elsewhere.
     Winston gave notice.

     He cleaned up ... eventually ... dumped buddies and habits.
     A couple of times, he asked if the store was hiring.
     We never were.

.

Shoplifting: Case #08 - The Plate

     Impulse theft. He'd parked a muddy red Toyota outside the main windows. Male, early 20's, chunky and pasty. Looked like the Pillsbury doughboy's crime prone, dumb cousin. When the alarm rang out he froze, brows furrowed. Thinking.
     Ahh, the criminal mind. Then he bolted -- must've remembered lunch.
     Dropped his keys once on the sidewalk and accidentally kicked them. Then he dropped them again as he fumbled with his locked car door. As heists go, this was terribly lame.
     Derek and Professor charged out the door as if the perp had nicked their cigarettes. I walked to the cube and nonchalantly wrote down his license plate number. Phoned the police while Mandy told me the car make, model, color, number of doors, etc. ... We had plenty of time. The red rocket wouldn't start.
     Rrrr rrrr rrr oooohhmmm. Rrrr rrrr rrr ooohhmmm.
     Professor pounded on the hapless car hood. "Surrender! Confess! We caught you on video!"
     Worse, Derek had disappeared near the car's radiator.
     Mandy and I argued whether God's will or fate had cursed this hombre with the terrible misfortune to be so utterly stupid.
     With the sixth crank, the reluctant roadster wheezed into life. Jesse James punched it in reverse, then dropped his jaw onto the floor.

     Derek had succeeded in unscrewing and removing the front license plate, which he raised high like a championship belt.
     Cool trophy.
     Police nailed him two blocks west. Car ran out of gasoline at the intersection.
     Girlfriend's car.
     Actually, it was her daddy's car and he already had opinions about this rebel Romeo.

.

Coworkers: Part 83 - Hit And Run

     Stacey was holding court.
     "I was telling everyone. I was late back from break because of a hit and run."
     "Are you hurt?" Sonya asked.
     "I'm fine, my car is fine," Stacey reassured. "I wasn't involved. But I was a witness."
     "Someone jump the light?" I guessed.
     "No, this was at Jack In The Box. The drive through line."
     "Hell, rear ended?"

     "Yeah. Guy in front of me, a crappy yellow Fiesta, bumped into a silver Honda waiting for his order. So the Honda guy gets out, looks at the scratch, starts yelling. The Fiesta guys starts laying on his horn."
     "Worried his milkshake was going to melt," Mandy joked.
     "The Honda guy ain't moving. He's on his cell phone, probably calling the cops."
     "During lunch hour? Dream on."
     "Next moment, the driver of the Fiesta hops out of his car and takes off."
     "What? Fistfight?"
     "No! Down the street. Running, like a rabbit," Stacey continued.
     "He left his car behind? What an idiot."
     "Complete idiot. His car, his license plate, his registration, his insurance card. Cops showed up ... and ... muffin head left his wallet on passenger seat with driver's license inside."
     "This is great!" I laughed.
     "If the guy had just stayed it was nothing. I couldn't even see a mark on the Honda."
     "He wasn't thinking. Fool," Sonya walked off.
     "Anyway, that's where I was. Filling out a police accident report."
     "Hit-n-run has a new definition," Mandy grinned.
     "You said it."

.

Coworkers: Part 84 - Turn The Page‏

     The announcement was long overdue.
     Mighty Blockbuster had fallen.
     News swept like prairie fire across the chain, across music retail.
     Rich, powerful, unbeatable Blockbuster had thrown in the towel of defeat. They were quitting the music business.
     Blockbuster Music would be no more. To use Lonestar slang, our besieged owners had cut & run.
     Running for their financial lives.
     The demise had begun, auspiciously enough, five years earlier. With a flourish, Blockbuster initiated sweeping acquisitions into a realm they ill understood. For when the far reaching overlords launched themselves into music retail, they were at their peak. Their peak of power, of influence, of arrogance.
     Within five years, Blockbuster would be swallowed whole by Viacom. Next, it would be grabbed and shaken by its ankles, lucrative cash flow diverted to purchase Paramount Pictures. Finally, the entire music division would be sold off to bankruptcy refugees at a bargain basement price.
     The history of Blockbuster Music was a sorry one of decline and fall.

     Blockbuster, no matter how earnest or sincere their intentions might have been, made blunder after blunder with their shiny musical box.
     First, they alienated current employees and threatened potential ones. Employee turnover increased because of, or during, the Blockbuster reign. As new owners, they had entered with a conservative, fundamentalist agenda. They began drug testing all new applicants, then instituted the hated dress code. Any potential employee in this country who was as smart as Fifi the Poodle could scam the drug test. Kits and cheats were readily available.
     The dress code was far more insidious and destructive.
     Other than Lisa, we hired no "club rats." And Lisa was hired because Stacey and I lobbied for her. The store lost her, and she became Rob's right hand. Still, most people who went to clubs weekly or who were into the underground balked at the dress code.
     Understand, Blockbuster analysts assumed customers had become blind goobers. Shoppers couldn't recognize the hired help, even after help asked, "Finding everything alright?" A chest high name tag alone no longer sufficed. Field employees had to wear uniforms, a khaki and blue costume. Blockbuster honchos did not follow their own dress code, but they were masters. Employees were servants, treated accordingly. We remained a record store, but instead of being a cool chain, we were a shackled chain.
     Blockbuster's street cachet sucked with anyone under age 50.

     Years earlier, with the passing of Sound Warehouse, many employees bolted for the quieter world of a national book chain. For the later Blockbuster crew, that opportunity had passed into lore. Oh, the book chain still existed. Old colleagues, Dan, Trina, and Larry still toiled in the sleepy realm. Yet, the golden period had given way to harsher economics. Workers were no longer valued assets. Like employees across Retail Nation, they were servants. And treated accordingly.
     As months rolled into years, employees with less and less interest filled the ranks of Blockbuster. Employees who had no passion for music, groups, even movies. A third of the crew answered questions with a shrug. Blockbuster had that effect on people. We couldn't chase deadbeats out the store fast enough.

     Blockbuster's patronizing attitude towards customers cost them dearly. Our video rental section had been a solid earner. Prices were quadrupled, then the section swept away. Rental clients were permanently lost. Blockbuster had deceived themselves that music retail, (and then book selling!) would be conquered easily. They barreled into the fray on top of the world. In the video realm, they had been omnipotent. Competitors had been smashed, film studios harkened to their decrees, customers had few choices other than to pay non competitive rental prices.
     Electronic superstores entered the arena and low balled CD prices as loss leaders. Customers walked through those doors for cut price music, then purchased headphones or speakers and extended warranties. Blockbuster did not react. Market share was surrendered. Week by week, more and more.
     To attract customers, stores offered candy. Corporate brains told managers to hand out pieces of hard candy to entering customers. Dentists across the land applauded.
     Then came the book section, launched without any fanfare, any strategy, any support. Six months later, book sections were slashed and burned. If customers thought corporate management had lost their bearings, they were devastatingly accurate.
     File sharing and down loading emerged, and Blockbuster froze like a bewildered ostrich. They recovered their game plan quickly, however, and raised prices.
     Customer reaction was not reassuring.

     Camp Bowie employees either recalled better, pre-Blockbuster days, or they were later hires, accustomed to sorry stewards. We worked for the corporate equivalent of the spoiled, opinionated child. Common enough. Look hard enough and you'll see talentless blowhards singing, acting, running a business into the dirt, leading a nation to the brink. Happened every week, you just hated it when you became collateral damage.
     Stacey quit at one point, came back. Sharon had been released, came back. Angela left, Derek moved, Sarah climbed away. Pat found a second job, in time, the music store became her secondary job. I interviewed with corporate headhunters, while The Boss trawled his network. Blockbuster.poisoned morale.
     Consequently, one would think we would be thrilled, relieved to hear our incompetent bosses were sinking into the sunset.
     Not so.
     Because we had been sold by the misguided, overconfident palisade to the struggling trailer park. To a chain that had mismanaged itself into bankruptcy.
     Sound Warehouse had been purchased five years earlier for $185 million dollars. Super Club purchased for $150 M.Blockbuster purchased others. Six chains had been acquired to create Blockbuster Music.
     Viacom dumped the division for $115 million.
     We were a fire sale, a cheap commodity. We understood we would be valued as bargain goods.
     Discards.
     No one felt eager. Nor optimistic. Jackals were on the way.
     We tidied the store and awaited the buzzards.
     Bye bye, Blockbuster.

.

Coworkers: Part 85 - Parade Begins

     Our new owners were Wherehouse, an established chain. I had shopped several locations in the 70's when I lived in Los Angeles. That was years ago. Since then, Wherehouse had survived lean times, including a stint in Bankruptcy. What had saved them during the file sharing era was USED. Used CD's and Used DVD's, an approach favored by indie stores.
     Fully half our store would be allotted to USED inventory. After months of spreading out product to make our racks appear fully stocked, we now had to shift and condense the entire layout. "We" as in Mandy, Sarah, Angela, Stacey, Pat. Chick Shift. Guys bore the grunt work of breaking down and shifting bins and racks. Professor suffered a meltdown. The Classical oasis was being shifted to the main floor. The room would become 100% Latino music. I had shipments. Mountains upon mountains of boxes.
     USED CD's.
     And ...
     Porn.
     Not talking artistic Playboy videos, featuring naked models splashing in a swimming pool while a saxophone moaned in the background.
     No. XXX. Hardcore. Explicit covers. Anal, multiple jousters, usually a lively hour of unplotted, freestyle bangin'.
     The Parade Began.
* *

     Word got around. Business increased. USED was a massive hit. Selling and buying. As customers converted their collections into mp3 format, they sold off their discs. This struck employees as shortsighted, since the mp3 audio quality was a fraction of the CD. Still, one didn't argue with customers, even Regulars, like Rodney, who was liquidating a decade of discs.
     We quickly got the hang of what we needed, what we had too many of, and what would sell in our particular store.
     USED Porn, we never received. Not from the DC, not from customers. Did these guys watch the same scenes over and over? Or were they collectors, building a library of priceless memories? Impress first-time girlfriends with a wall of fleshy romps? Or grow a legacy they could bequeath to grateful grandchildren decades from now?
     Sure.

     Straight away, we realized Porn shoppers were completely single. Secretive, almost furtive. Never asked for employee assistance. And of all the employees in the store, the one they tried to avoid, the one they were terrified of, or simply hated, was Sarah.
     Sarah was a sadist.
     Most Porn guys stood silently in line, then slid their choices across the counter. Upside down, no exposed bush, pink, or title like Shaving Ryan's Privates.
     Sarah always flipped the cases back over and gushed brightly, "Oh, no date this evening?" or "Just break up with your girlfriend?" or "I can tell you're going to be busy tonight!"
     Guys visibly wilted under this upbeat attack. If there were shoppers behind them, especially families or females, their faces would cringe in pain. Sarah was merciless.

     After several months, Porn boys memorized Sarah's schedule. They'd either visit on her day off, or when she worked Listening Center, away from that damned front register. Even then, they weren't completely safe. They'd be in their hallowed skin section, absorbed with Pulp Friction, or Vixen Businesswoman Part 27, gems all, and some employee would ease up behind them.
     "Finding what you need, sir!"
     Scared the hell out of them.

.

Customers: Part 18 - Crow Mystery‏

     This cat was shrouded in dense fog. Updates or clarification should be helpful.
     Crow.
     Danny Raven Crow.
     Fixture in the store for two solid years. Came in weekly. Purchased heavy and focused.
     Uriah Heep. The Godz. A few other groups, more obscure.
     Crow bought any edition, paid cash. I chased down imports and remasters for him. He would buy ten to twenty Uriah Heep CD's at a crack.
     Back in the day, he had been a member of the band. Anytime there was an edition released in Germany, Sweden, wherever, he wanted a copy to send to the lawyers to keep those royalty checks flowing.
     Crow was a compadre of Buddy Miles, who had retired to Cowtown for reasons unknown. Crow also produced albums for local artists, chief among them, blues guitarist J B Wynn. I personally saw at least two releases. Wynn's X-Mas Blues and Big Train. Crow's name was in the production credits, as were various store employees. Crow and Wynn bypassed distributors South West and Crystal Clear, and sold direct. Wherehouse on Camp Bowie was one of the locations, aside from club venues, that carried their discs. Store personnel were credited on one album. As a thank you? Maybe. I never knew for sure.
     See ... things were weird.
     We liked Crow, he bought steady and hard. He was a Regular who bought over $100 per week. Again, cash. He also shared the wealth. Handed out restaurant coupons to employees. Aside from label reps, no one ever did stuff like that. With reps, we knew the game. Good will supposedly translated into store play. We played what we wanted.
     With Crow ... well ... what? What was he doing? What was the deal?
     John was suspicious and began prowling Internet sites.
     Uriah Heep never had a member by the name of Crow.
     Brad later studied a Heep CD in front of Crow, looking for his name.
     "You won't see me," Crow explained. "I had to use an alias for tax purposes. I hadn't cleared immigration to work in England."
     "Oh, what alias?" Brad looked closer at the back cover.
     "I can't tell you that. Legal restrictions, you know."
     There were two bands called The Godz. Punk pioneers from the 60's and a biker band from the late 70's. There was no Crow in either band.
     Another alias?
     We had plenty of customers who claimed membership in major groups. Some were genuine. Charles, original Toadies lead guitarist, still shopped Camp Bowie during his lunch break. Other souls were like the white gent who sang in the Temptations. None bought albums in the sheer quantities like Crow, however. Most just yakked their fantasies aloud. Crow paid. There had to be some strategy, a design. We just could not work out what it was.
     Believe me, we speculated.
     Most of all, why was he dropping thousands of dollars for a charade?
     Crow offered to manage J D's rap career. J D was agreeable, but wary. He had already learned, bitterly, how expensive an entourage of "new friends" could be. Moochers and leeches, draining green. Crow had plans,contacts, publicity ideas, tour packages. Recording dates. Studio time always involved expensive costs. It was never resolved who would be responsible for production fees. J never signed, though Crow courted him steadily. Often, J B Wynn accompanied him. Both reminded J D he was blowing his big showbiz chance. J D eventually got national exposure on Texas Hood Connections, screwed and chopped.
     Back to Crow.
     Mid-Winter, he complained about feeling sick. There was an operation (his leg was bad), but he bounced back.
     Then ... Crow disappeared.
     Checked the obituaries. Phoned our newspaper contacts.
     Scoured that repository of all useless knowledge, the Internet.
     Nothing.

 

Update 2023 - https://www.legacy.com/us/obituaries/dfw/name/danny-crow-obituary?id=35858699

 

.

Coworkers: Part 86 - Walking In LA

     I was more familiar with our new owners, Wherehouse Music, than anyone else.
     Once upon a time, they'd been my record store.

     In the 70's I drove cross country and enrolled at Cal State. Los Angeles was about as far from the Appalachia Mountains as I could stretch. For over four years, I attended CSUN, clubbed, and worked in a skateboard factory. The first adjustment was especially difficult. I suffered naive misconceptions about California based on 1960's beach movies and psychedelic hippie history. What an idiot. Worse, I wasn't accustomed to motorcycle cops. I received enough citations so that I couldn't drive for almost a year. Hitch hiking became my commute method. Or I walked. L-O-S-E-R.
     I was suspended from Cal State. Later, placed on probation. Drugs were free or cheap, most of my friends were generous stoners, which probably accounted for my sorry finances, infantile existence on Sunset, and dicey academics.
     I barely held onto an apartment because my landlords pitied idiots. The nearest record shop within walking distance was The Wherehouse, a Southern California mainstay. The staff was helpful, wax was affordable.
     I had good memories shopping the Ventura Blvd location.
     After a year, I was permitted to drive again. I abandoned the old car, or gave it away, don't remember. Bought a sports car and switched record loyalties from The Wherehouse to Tower Records to Adam's Apples, an import specialist tucked in an industrial park. I never shopped The Wherehouse again.
     I met Zelda, struggled through yet another probation at CSUN, graduated. Then we drifted on.

     Years later, I followed reports of the old chain, renamed Wherehouse Music, in Billboard, Variety, Ice, and other music journals. Wherehouse doubled in size during the 80's, and beat off a hostile takeover from Shamrock, the Disney group that would purchase Sound Warehouse, later resell it to Blockbuster. The Wherehouse chain suffered hard times in the 90's, filing for bankruptcy protection, then being acquired by a group of Merrill Lynch brokers. During much of that period, they could not compete in the rental arena, where rival Blockbuster destroyed their video margins.
     Wherehouse shifted gears and went into the USED business. Big Time. Music labels fought this plan, but the strategy ultimately prevailed.
     Fast forward to the late 90's. Viacom wanted to shed the music division, Wherehouse had emerged from Chapter 11. Viacom asked for $200 million, accepted $115 million. At store level, employees couldn't care less. Just other distant bosses. Because that chain had already mismanaged their affairs into bankruptcy, our expectations were low.
     One of the first changes by Wherehouse, and what set the tone, was the purging of the North Richland Hills location. Hurst was a solid performer in a prime location, but new owners wanted Assistant Managers replaced. AM's had played a bit of a dodge with personal checks to tide them over till payday. Nothing illegal, more of a cash float. The new Wherehouse  management team didn't warn or counsel. No. Termination. Old colleague Danny was among the discharged. This was a catastrophe for their store. Our Assistants, Stacey, Pat, John, and Joe, pitched in and staffed their team until everything was sorted. Ironically enough, many years later the North Richland Hills store would return the grim favor.
     Our store, which was as neglected as all the other acquisitions, began to reinvent itself. More because of Joe and JD, their passion and interest in the hot underground, we shifted focus into Rap. Coworkers like that were contagious. We caught trends early on, and were always onto emerging labels. NO LIMIT, then CA$H MONEY, finally SWISHA HOUSE.
     Camp Bowie grew into Rapland. Nights, the store was a club scene. We increased the size of the section several times, as we purchased direct from Houston, Louisiana, and Memphis one stop distributors. Whatever problems plagued the chain itself, or Region, or District, our financial numbers weren't as distressed.
     Overall, store morale improved. Coworkers deeply committed to music now outweighed the drones who worked for paychecks.
     We were beginning to surge past all the other stores in our area.
     It was a fun place again.
     We never worked with so little budget or for a sorrier group of owners. As The Boss summarized, management declined with every corporate shift. From Bromo, to Disney, to Blockbuster, to Wherehouse. Every change was a change for the worse.
     One singular example. Wherehouse Music rarely spent ad dollars (provided by labels, mind you). When they did ...
     An infamous commercial. Yanked almost immediately:

Pause SOUND CHECK, hit the play button below.

.