|
|
"Why hasn't that book been removed from that display?" she demanded, pointing to a copy of Anne Hooper's Pocket Sex Guide, nestled on the top shelf of a Valentine's Day display next to Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair by Pablo Neruda. "I'm sorry, which book?" asks Johnson, my tactful coworker who was covering the register for the evening. "That book," the woman continues, "The one I asked to have removed yesterday. My seven-year old daughter looked at it while I was making a purchase and found a picture of a woman performing oral sex on a man." "I'm very sorry," Johnson begins , "I wasn't here last night and--" "She needs therapy now. At least four sessions. I could hold this store responsible." I consider stepping in to help defuse the situation, but there's not a single socially acceptable sentence on my tongue. At least half of them suggest that it's not the daughter who needs therapy. I shelve a copy of The Fires of Heaven by Robert Jordan instead. Johnson grows flustered. "Look, there's no need...there's no need for--" "At least take the book down like I asked. Is the manager here?" "No, ma'am, he's not, but I can take your name and phone number and have him call—" Johnson reaches over the counter and tries taking the book off the display. It falls to the floor, revealing another inflammatory photograph replete with descriptive captions. "That won't be necessary," the woman declares, acidic edge still lining her voice, "Just keep that book off the display. I just hope my daughter will be okay." She turns swiftly on her heel and leaves the store. I poke my head out of the stacks. Johnson stares out the door as if there were burning foot prints in the sidewalk where the woman made her dramatic exit. Shaking his head, he walks around to the front of the counter and picks up the offending book. "Is it safe?" I ask, emerging from my shelter in the shelves. • Capitalism has produced some really bizarre institutions in our culture, but retail employment takes the cake. People want to be able to shop on any day at any time, and this means that there must be people working every day at all times. In our state of Maine, there was a time when Sunday was exempt from this axiom of capitalism, but the "blue laws" that maintained this exemption were repealed a few years ago. According to the Maine Department of Labor, there were 113,146 people employed in the retail industry during 1997 (data for subsequent years hasn't been compiled yet). This was exceeded only by the service industry, ringing in at 138,091 employees. At the same time, retail workers had the lowest weekly earnings; $284, while the highest goes to finance, insurance, and real estate; $663. This is a sad figure when you consider that it's the retail employees who are conducting the fundamental transactions that keep businesses afloat. They are the ones who make the sale, day after day. It's their faces that greet the customers, and it's those same faces that aggravated customers use for their targets. Every person who works in a retail store is a sales person, customer service representative, and community therapist all at once, at any and all times. Obviously, retail sucks. Even people who haven't worked in retail could figure this out with a little prodding, and every job that isn't rooted in genuine passion is a crappy job. There are things about working in retail, however, that make it a unique kind of psychological trap. More than any other vocation (if it can even be called a vocation), it demands a total suppression of personal identity. My experience with this warped manifestation of American capitalism comes from two years of selling books at Bookland of Maine's Monument Square branch. As Bookland marks off new territory on Marginal Way, lobbies for a tax break, and boasts about creating new jobs for Portland, it's important to look at exactly what happens to a retail employee who finds him or herself behind the counter of a book store. Next • 1 • 2 • 3 • Back to Readings Copyright © 1999 Jesse Loesberg |
he woman strides
through the door and walks right up to the counter. I can
tell from her swift and determined gait that she's furious, even from
my slightly obscured vantage point in the science fiction section.