Entry 42: All Good Things...
I turned in my two weeks notice today. Well, actually I turned in my plans to turn in my two weeks notice. I’m working a little under three more weeks, and then I’m making a vow to never again put myself in a situation where the general public can take potshots at me. I don’t mind getting a real job, where my superiors fuss me out every once and a while; I don’t enjoy having a job where the everyday inarticulate yokels of society can take advantage of my required cheerfulness. I want to work at a place where I have permission, and am even encouraged, to beat the krap out of anyone that screams in my face about how there should be a warranty on batteries. I feel like one of those British guards that can’t speak or move, even if a dog pees on their leg. Never work in retail, and never be one of those guards.

The store’s probably going to be in a little trouble come August, seeing as how nearly everyone is leaving to achieve some form or another of higher education. Ashley just disappeared. I’m not sure where he went. This branch of everyone’s favorite chain electronics store will still be manned by Ratboy, and our awesomely knowledgeable manager, but other than that we’ve got two trainees and the manager from the other store (who could learn a thing or two from the trainees). The two managers are leaving for a while, right around the time that everyone is quitting, which knocks the man-power for both stores down to three. Just for comparison, we usually have about eight, and least five of whom that know what they’re talking about.

One of those trainees I have failed to mention on this page before, simply because I’ve been giving him the past few weeks to prove to me that he’s not a total flake. He is though, so I’m going to write about him now. His name is Keyno, and the owner hired him a few weeks ago, after hearing tale of THE PROPHECY OF EMPLOYEE SHORTAGE ™®©. He’s learning kind of quick I guess, but what bothers me is the insane amount of peppiness he exhibits when attempting to show our customers what they’re looking for. I hear the following dialogue (verbatim) about forty times a day:

"HELLO SIR! Welcome to Radio Shack, how are you today?"

"Uh...I...I'm okay. Thank you."

"I'm AWESOME. If I were any better then I'd have to pay them to be working here. Are you looking for anything?"

"I'm just browsing."

"Now, that can be DANGEROUS." *insert chuckle here*

"..."

At this point he usually walks over to me and says how much everyone likes that joke, while rubbing my arm. If they actually ask him a question, he comes over to ask me the question, while rubbing my arm. Have you ever had to deal with anyone like that? Overly physical and peppy people tend to freak me out, especially when they're male. Sorry if that's not "PC." I'm going to go denounce welfare and speak some stereotypes now.

Entry 41: Due to popular request...
It's a little bit late for me to be starting this, so I'm sure there will be loads of spelling errors. But, I'm sure none of you out there read this to improve your grammatical well-being, so here we go. Let's see what I can remember that's sort of noteworthy...

A woman called, and one of my co-workers picked up the phone, having a conversation that roughly follows this simulation: (DISCLAIMER: This is only a simulation. I did not actually experience the situation, only a recount of it. If you want to witness actual events, watch the webcam and try to read the lips.)

"I would like to know about Alltel phones."

"Okay, the phone is free if you sign a year-long contract and pass a credit check."

"Oooh... do you need a driver's license to do the credit check?"

"Yes ma'mm."

"Well, what happened is I lost my Driver's license in Wilmington."

"We're going to need some form of ID ma'mm..."

"Well, you see what happened, is that I left it in Wilmington, and it would be a hassel to go back and get it."

"Do you have any other form of State ID ma'mm?"

"Well, actually what happened is that someone in Wilmington took it from me."

"Okay ma'mm, what we need is..."

"The cops took it from me."

"Ma'mm, do you have any State ID? We can do it that way."

"Okay. I might have one of those. If I do can you do the credit check while I'm on the way? I can call on my cell phone."

"No ma'mm."

As my co-worker hung the phone onto its base, he commented on the fact that she was trying desperately to get a cell phone, even though she apparently (somehow) already had one. That wasn't all that much of an oddity, I don't guess, but it was pretty funny that she called back two minutes later and a different co-worker picked up the phone.

"I lost my license because of a DUI, can I get a cell phone?"

I don't know if anyone will find that story funny or not, but you're going to have to deal, because I'm tired, and I don't feel like talking about our staff becoming less by one. (It happens when one of your co-workers say they're going home for about an hour, and don't come back... we're going on a week or so now.) Go do something productive.

Entry 40: Oooh. I'm over the hill.
The other night we set off bug bombs in the store. You know, the explosive little canisters of Raid poison that kills bugs, dead. How redundant. Anyway, we set up about half a dozen of the things, Dilbert and I that is, pumping our beloved Radio Shack full of deadly fog. Numbnuts had the wonderful idea of "making sure the spray gets everywhere" by running around with one of the cans as if it was a less dignified version of the Olympic torch, keeping us in there for a little longer than the "get the hell out of there" amount of time suggested by the box. By the time he stopped so I could fire off the last can, we were both hacking up lungfulls of that lemony smelling bug-killer. Also, supposedly any heat source or open flame can ignite the hazardous haze, once again going by that the reading material on the box. I guess it's a good thing I turned off that sautering iron right before we set started. Boom.

My manager was telling me a story about debugging the previous store, over a decade ago. The owner told him to walk down to Eckerds and buy some bug bombs. At this time they were located in a shopping center with multiple restraunts, a condition that spawned hamster-sized cockroaches, the kind that eat small children. Anyway, he walked down to Eckerds to get a few cans (the store wasn't all that big) and the clerk there (for some reason) told him that he would need at least three boxes. My manager, never having used explosive poision cans before, took the guy at his word, and loaded up with about 18 cans. Starting at the front of the store, he moved to the backdoor, setting the things off as he went. By the time he reached the last can, it was impossible to see the front door anymore, and it was of course then that he realized that he was parked out front. After walking all the way around the rear and side of the massive shopping center, giving the cans ample time to empty even more of their spray, he made it around to his car, only to find some hick sitting there staring at the building. Some comment about the store being on fire directed my manager's attention back to the now bug-free Radioshack he just departed, and to the huge pillars of poison twisting under the door and into the sky. The windows were a solid white.

Basically, the next day there were dead hamster-roaches all over the place, and an inch-thick sticky film all over every inch of the store. According to the box (once again) about three canisters would have been more than enough to kill all those baby-eaters. Six times that is enough to kill any potential customers. I should have used more the other day.

Entry 39: *twitch*
Yesterday made me appreciative that my few years spent in entry-level retail employement is going to come to an end relatively soon. Two--two and a half months--or so, and I'll be free from jobs like this forever. (Hopefully.) I can pretend the public doesn't exist in just under a dozen weeks.

There were about thirty minutes after opening yesterday that no one came in. I just kind of alternately between my feet and the wall, but then the flood gates of stupidity must have opened, because all day, every single customer I had, and there were loads, was of the caliber that I write about in the stories present on this page. We had morons and jerks lining up out the door, getting more and more pissy, because the morons and jerks infront of them were taking so long to be helped. I don't even know where to begin telling you about it.

To begin with, in general we usually have a few people everyday who refuse to believe our advice, even though they bothered to drive down to Radioshack and ask for it. Every single person yesterday was one of those. I didn't have any of those nice "I'd like a coax connector, that's it? Thank you" people. I had the "Are you sure this is the right size, is your manager here, my cousin told me different, the sky is purple" people. Some old lady wanted me to hook up her DirecTV reciever in order to show her that it works. I hooked it up with A/V cables, but, "You're not supposed to use those to watch TV, you're supposed to use those to record. You use that twisty cable thing for TV." Explanations that they are both alternative ways to do the same thing were met with a string of 'no's from the lady's mouth, even after I showed an image on the screen.

I had those people that don't want to buy anything, they just want to ask you about everything in the store, and then inform you how much better it is at Wal-mart. "The phones at Wal-mart are so much better than these. Tell me about these clocks. Wal-mart has you beat on those too."

Oh, and one customer picked up a box and a cockroach crawled out from underneath it. A damn cockroach. It was shortly after that when I just kind of left for three quarters of an hour. I came back to some punk kid yelling at me for his caller ID being malfunctional. He must've been thirteen or so. If you had heard him, you wouldn't wonder the only number dialed from his phone was his mother's. (I checked his log.) He told me that if his caller ID didn't start working that he would be back to see me personally. I looked at him for a little while, and then I blinked.

I deal with the wet tissue paper that sticks to the bottom of the trashcan of society, and I'm expected to do it with a smile. Never work in retail.

Entry thirtysomething: Wire?
I'm writing this from work, which is kind of a testament to exactly how much 'work' is being done today. We've got about half a dozen salesmen on the sales floor at the moment, and nary a customer in sight. There must be nothing scarier to a potential buyer than to walk through the door and see a bunch of ravenous retail employees ready to stuff merchandise down his throat. Well, we're not exactly ravenous--we don't get commission, so we're not exactly climbing all over eachother to sell that battery--but all customers seem to think we're ready to squeeze every dime from their pocket. I've had a customer accuse me of trying to sell him more coax ends than he needed, just so that I could get more commision. I think people confuse us with lawyers.

Such a situation leaves us constantly with nothing to do, as you can imagine, which the boss really doesn't approve of, as I'm sure you can imagine as well. The other night when Ratboy was poking around on the internet, and I with Minesweeper, he walked up behind us and pulled an assignment out of the air. It went something along the lines of, "Could you guys do me a favor? Uh... how about you take all the computer boxes out of the back, and line them up along the front of the store, and bring those thirty DirecTV boxes out of the back, and put them there, and stack those RC cars up in the middle of the floor there." Other such useful activities involve dusting, and counting boxes. You can see the edge of the DirecTV pyramid we made from the webcam (assuming it hasn't decided to turn itself off recently). We ignored the whole RC cars thing though. We can only let so much busywork get in the way of sitting on our butts at the demo computers.

And now, from the same source as the "BAG STORY," i bring you the "WIRE DIALOGUE."

"My daughter told me about this wire that you plug into the back of your television machine that gives you surround sound."

"A wire... that gives you surround sound?"

"Yes. You plug it into the back of your television and it gives you surround sound."

"...do you have surround sound... speakers?"

"Of course."

"Do you have surround sound speakers that... surround you?"

"No, I have them on my television machine."

"Ma'mm, the whole idea of surround sound speakers is that they... surround you."

"She told me I just need a wire that gives you surround sound."

"Ma'mm, as soon as they come up with that wire, I will be the FIRST in line to get it, no matter WHAT it costs. But, until that day comes along, you need to plug that wire into a SPEAKER at some point, you understand?"

"...I just know that my daughter said that I could get the wire."

"Try Walmart."

Entry 37: Stupidity.
I'm not telling this story from experience, I'm getting it from a coworker of mine that shows up to work every once and a while. Supposedly this woman bought a small item, I believe he said it was a talking clock if I remember correctly, and thought him rude for not offering her a bag for the damn thing. Well, even though she had a purse that could have easily held the item, he got her the damn bag. What did she do? She picked up the clock in one hand, the bag in the other, and walked out to her car in a huff. We had much speculation as to what she actually wanted the bag for, seeing as how it obviously wasn't the clock. We didn't come up with anything interesting enough to mention here though, so just come up with your own and pretend I said it. It's easier for me that way.

Speaking of Radioshack's bags, those have to be the most poorly engineered holding vessels whose likes I've ever come across. "You mean someone designs those things?" I'm sure you ask, and my answer is, "Of course. Someone out there designs bags for a living, and in this case they did a piss poor job of it." I'm sure you're appalled that someone gets paid for such a profession, as well as my gratuitious use of the word "piss," but bear with me here. If you go to a grocery store, their paper bags are perfect--a status obtained after many generations of work. There are four sides, and, the important part here, a bottom. The plastic bags' construction is a little more complicated, consisting of two equal halves joined by a seam. I'm not sure if it's the material they use, the gradual sloping of the bag as it nears the bottom seam, or the placement of the handles, but they hold stuff extremely well. You put in cereal boxes, that blue box kraft krap, celery, and the bag simply widens to hold the load. You can still use the handles.

Now, go to Radioshack and try to use the medium sized plastic bag. Put in any box of any size and the damn thing becomes about as useful as-- (again, insert something funny here. I'm tired.) Unlike the forgiving structure of a grocery store bag (like a 'U'), ours have stiff material, and FIRM seams on the bottom and sides (when you open it it's like a 'V'). So, when you try to shove a box into it, the sides take the place of the non-existant bottom, and the height of the bag halves, pulling the handles apart--one to each side of the item. (In order to use a bag, one generally carries both handles in one hand, keeping the bag closed. No dice here buster.) Most customers don't understand my explanation of this phenomenon, they just keep attempting to hold both handles in one hand, the item does somersaults due to the contortion of the bag's fabric, and they look at me like I'm a retard because *I* am the cause of the poorly made bag. I offer to give them the LARGE bag (able to fit a Buick), but they just huff and leave the store with the box under their arm. Whoever designed these damn bags should be drug out in the street and shot. I just wanted everyone to know that.

Here's a conversation you might find more interesting than my scientific analysis of bags... maybe:

*ring*

"Radioshack. How may I help you?"

"Yep. This Radioshack?"

"...Yes it is."

"I just got a modem, and I was wondering if you could tell me how to get on the internet. I wanted to look up them service providers."

"Well... you need a service provider to get on the internet ma'mm... They give you access to the internet."

"Yeah, I know. I just want to get on the internet so that I can find one, that's all I want to look at."

"But you can't do that, you have to get them to give you a dial-up first."

"Are you saying that there aren't any service providers on that there internet?"

"YOU CAN'T GET ON THE INTERNET UNTIL YOU CONTACT ONE!"

"That's what I'm trying to do on the internet!"

"IT'S LIKE TRYING TO WATCH A #$%! MOVIE BEFORE YOU BUY THE VCR! IT'S NOT GOING TO WORK!"

"If you ain't going to help me I'm going to find someone who is."

Repeat.

Entry 36: Passwords
The new update of the POS software, that we use to ring customers out, not only has TWO windows whose color I can change to pink for the annoyance of my coworkers, but a rather interesting new password function. Gone are the days when we could ring items up for our friends at below cost, and stick Dilbert's name on the sale just in case anyone notices. In order to put your name onto a sales ticket, you now have to type in a three or four digit numeric password. Rat boy and I are working on finding out everyone's chosen number, for no other reason than just to see if we can. My main goal is to do it without resorting to just trying each of the 11,000 different combinations. I've found Dilbert's once using that method, but he changed it before I could use his name to sell myself a stereo system for five bucks. Sore loser in my opinion.

I don't know what it is with some customers and the concept of personal space, but a quite a few of them don't quite grasp it. It's not a rare occurance to ask some yokel if he needs assistance, and then find him spitting out some explanation only a few inches from my face. Unless one is given special permission, there is a limit on how close one can get to another human being, directly proportional to the amount of clothing that the two involved in the equation have on. Generally it's probably around a foot. That amount increases to about a foot and a half in situations where dress is scanty, like at a pool. In group showers it's a three foot minimum. However, even if I'm wearing a trench coat, there is no need for your nose to be two inches away from mine while you're speaking about telephone connectors. The simple solution of taking a step back to comfortable range always fails too--they make sure to follow.

I apologize for the overall blandness of today's entry. It happens sometimes, especially when I don't pay attention to any customers for a while at work. Go read some of the archives, or do something productive. *shrug*