I went to Belk thinking I was going to be a temp, someone who didn't make it past the initial "omg fucking unpack everything now now now" and I left a part-time sales associate with my name on a silver nametag determined never to come back for my last paycheck.
This is what I learned, selling shirts to the women of America.
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1. I don't know what the hell's going on. My parents have always said that I have no idea about fashion or clothing. I was horrified in high school when my mother told me I dressed conservatively. Me?! Conservative? You should have seen the mental scar that developed from that simple description of my style. Well, admittedly, I like plain things, plain comfortable things. You know, like blue. I like blue. We can stick with blue. Working at Belk, I realized sharply, very sharply, I have no idea what's going on with fashion. Yes, I knew there were trends, but I didn't realize there were trends that were established and that we will God damn follow and that because we are putting it out there it will exist. I understood that we had something to do with fashion, but I had no idea what that which we extend to the customer will become fashion. We establish and create fashion, like gods. Me, plain freaking Jane, a fashion god. Somewhere there are skinny women in pink hot pants screaming blasphemy.
2. Gift wrapping is effing hard. You have no idea. People who ask for gift wrap aren't nice people. They're lazy, and they're also usually elitist and bitchy. Gift wrapping costs extra unless you're in a certain bracket of spending with Belk. Understandably, some people want gift wrap, but few people want to pay extra or wait. I gift wrapped like... three things the entire time I was there at Belk. It was horrifying. As soon as someone said they wanted gift wrap, it was like all the blood gushed straight from the new bullet hole in my heart down my black slacks and pooled around the cash register. It is hard to slickly gift wrap something unless you have lots of practice and, um, know the procedure. Which we didn't. They showed us once in person. Cue much waiting for customers, and it not being perfect. The waiting was the horrible part. Feeling faint, you'd work on the thing for maybe fifteen, twenty minutes... no joke. No freaking joke. It wasn't just me, it was all the new retail people. Um, hi, can we get a Customer Service department, please? Let's not overwhelm the already way-too-busy associate. Please. Please. Please.
3. When you get behind the register, some days you will never move from it again. Want to escape? Nope. Another customer. You haven't checked the changing rooms in thirty minutes? Too bad. Momma needs seven shirts. You can see the model doesn't have any pants anymore? Awful, but you gotta help this teenage girl get some new jeans. Thought your shift ended ten minutes ago? Nu-uh, sister. It's still your time to ring people up. And it will always be, cause you stupidly got behind the register when and where you can't see the other associates in the women's department. You're screwed. You will never be able to leave. They say "when it rains, it pours" - in retail, this could switch over to "when the customers want to buy, they will fucking buy." Sales days or not, you will be ringing up until the register breaks or another associate saves you. She will not want to save you, but you will fucking leave as soon as her feet touches the mat. "Bye, Miss Jackie, I've got to check on the changing rooms...!" And then you run, you run, God damn it.
4. Sales associates aren't doing their jobs when the changing rooms are overflowing = this is a false statement in some ways and vaguely true in others. The above situation happens at retail stores, particularly in the ladies' department. The associate gets trapped selling things at the register. The clothing in the changing room piles up. Theoretically she shouldn't have to even be bothered - people should respectfully put their shit up. If you are taking twenty-five things in, you should be prepared to put it up. However, people are lazy, think it's the associates' job to pick up after them, and leave whatever the fuck they want behind. This is discourteous and bullshit. Yes, associates should keep the changing rooms tidy. It is okay when one or two things are left behind. But, no, you shouldn't carry so much shit in you have no ability to bring it out. Retail stores don't put enough associates on the floor to begin with, if they get trapped, they can't check the every thirty minutes you're supposed to. Considering the layout of the Belk I worked at - two stations, four registers, five changing rooms - you can imagine what happened. There were times where four associates would be trapped at the stations, or three, and the one was running around doing what she could. The overflow from the changing rooms just would make your toes curl and your voice hurt as you growled to yourself, restraining a scream. Not. my. job. to. be. your. mother. Pick up after yourself, American woman. Good God.
5. Unlike other industries, retail wants your ass out the door as soon as it can help it. Associates clamor to leave, sure, but the actual store and its managers want you to leave at the end of your shift more than you want to leave. Some managers care more than others, and they want the store to be pretty damn clean. But others are like "hahaha get the fuck out!" an hour after closing regardless of what's left to do. "Morning shift will handle it," they say. And you have no unawareness suddenly why day/night shifts everywhere hate each other. When a retail store closes, you close out the remaining registers. You count all the money. You put it into the register. You put aside the checks, put those in. You throw away any gift cards, coupons, but you keep Belk reward dollars, for whatever reason. You leave $100 in the drawer for the morning. They will be checking, so don't fuck up. The machine judges you - it tells you if you're off or have too much. I'd look down and see I missed a penny all the damn time. Fuck counting those things by hand. While someone is doing this, closing registers, the other people are cleaning out the changing rooms and putting up everything. At some point, some associate is vacuuming if they haven't already and going through and straightening every fucking thing in the whole department. This blows for one reason. There's usually two associates closing. There can be ONE. And yes, I have closed the entire women's department on a SATURDAY night. It's days like that I am happy I have forty minutes to get home. Turn the music loud, go seventy-five on the way home. Stare at the stars, imagine something better.
6. Subway is a gift from Jesus to sales associates (aka... me). The Belk we opened was in a brand new shopping center. It was us and a giant pet store and a tanning bed. After quite some time, there opened a McDonald's that never was slow or without customers. But for a while, it was us and the highway. Down the highway on the right was a Subway, and I frequented that place like a shaky, sweaty man in a ragged suit trying to find a whore to cuddle with after unsatisfying sex. The only change, of course, to that metaphor is that Subway -never- disappointed me, and I never disappointed Subway. Foot long white, salami only, cheddar cheese, lettuce, tomatoes. Two things changed. Most of the time I got carrots, until they discontinued carrots while I was working at Belk! Initially I also was getting mustard, but... wow, no, Subway associates do not know how much mustard to put on. Having worked at Subway, I know this is because Americans are effing gross and want a lot of condiments. I do not. I am afraid of mustard stains more than anything in the world. So I cut mustard from my sandwich routine early on, and I never looked back. I would eat half of the sub before I got back down the road to the next light. The other half of the sub would be gone before the end of my hour lunch break. It was good, always good, and I never felt bad in the least for spending my money on it. I can't remember a better series of lunches in my life.
7. My special sales are totally coincidental. I am not a salesperson. "Will you be paying with your Belk card today?" Oh, I said that sure. People said no. I said okay. They said "credit card / cash / etc" and I said okay. And that was that. You're supposed to go "Do you want to sign up today? *explains benefits of Belk card*" and be all like :D omg, ma'am, you haven't had the opportunity yet!! here, let me help youuuu. My sales I made, signing people up for Belk cards, were coincidental. If a woman wanted to sign up, I signed her up. Nothing more. We got paid for that, in cash, signing people up for Belk cards. Yes, I got money, and I appreciated it. But nothing enough to force the card on people. I specialize in being sweet, and there is nothing remotely sweet about explaining Rewards Dollars or avoiding our 22% bullshit interest rate. Much confirmed later in 2009, I am not a salesperson. I'm customer service through and through.
8. You live in the country, but you got money. Don't judge by the accent. Early on, in training, one of my coworkers, this huge butchy woman who had a six inch knife in her pocket (like the sort of knife that could serrate arteries and tear into bone), said that we should never judge our customers. Well, of course not! But she explained further. She'd just gotten thousands of dollars from selling cattle and came into a store in Atlanta, boots, dirty jeans, looking probably a lot like she did while we were unpacking clothing - meaning ragged and country. She got snubbed by the associate hardcore, couldn't get her attention, was talked down to. Other women watched the exchange. My coworker snapped at the associate, saying she was going to throw down $5000 on a coat there, but not with that sort of service! She left, and so did the other bystander women. Of course, for me, my focus was on the "$5000 on coat" but I got the picture. And it came quite in handy. Our store was in the country, and the women who came to my section... were country. But they had money, either on credit card, Belk card, or cash. I had two women, very memorable, pay me in cash when our credit card system was down (they didnt know about the system being down, they were going to pay in cash anyway). Both paid over $100 which they just pulled out of their wallets with total ease. It was a mixture of the economy being bad (only spend what you have on you) and just pure simplicity. Yes, we have money, and yes, here it is. There's a Belk Card that's black with gold writing on it, it's called the Belk Elite card. You have to spend $5000 a year to get this card. We had some Belk Elite cards, and, boy, you wouldn't assume these were the folks who had spent that much and were going to spend that much. But they did. Don't judge on the accent, just take the cash or card and go.
9. You will acquire a Southern accent working in the country. First day of training I sure as hell didn't have a country accent, and I didn't say "ya'll" too much. By the time I left, I was twangy as fuck, and said y'all like every other sentence. My Southern belle broke in and took over my vocal cords for several months, and now she still has her fingers strumming the muscles, just barely. I turned into a sweet little thing, fluttery eyelashes, utterly demure, thank ya'll, ya'll come back, how are ya'll doin today, do ya'll need any help? Ma'am...... Mayum. Mayuuum. That's where it got me. I said ma'am maybe four times minimum every encounter with a female customer. Ma'am can be said straight up, no accent. But if you're swinging sweetly, as a sales associate, it will turn Southern, and you will develop a twang. Months after leaving Belk at my telemarketing job, people called me on my ya'll and ma'am all the time. Damn the country, overwhelming my civilized sensibilities, breaking the vocal patterns my parents were so proud to develop. Snuck in and took over so I'd be better at customer service when I wasn't looking...
10. Sales can be a lifetime job, but it is political and conflict-driven. Retail is like the military: there are lifers and short-timers. I was the latter, knew my ass was getting out of there at least by school time. Many women were there who had been working for Belk for years. One had owned her own boutique shop but had moved onto big public retail because of the economy. She was older but super fashionable, sweet like a mint julep, and knew everyone in the damn county. The other two women who worked in the department who were old veterans to Belk had these sour, stale attitudes. Bitchy, greedy, elitist, arrogant, all dented and made dull by years of sales. They could seduce an old woman into signing up for a Belk Card one second, slap you with tons of work the next. I never had too much trouble with one of them (she worked the higher-end part of the department) but the other...
It all came to a head one day when I was the ONLY one doing the changing rooms, which happened quite a fucking lot, doing circles around the department, signing my name every thirty minutes and taking out clothes and putting them back. I grabbed a bunch of shit from the pretty work part of the department and put it down on a table - our manager had just demanded I go vacuum and get rid of other clothes in another changing room - the table already had clothes on it, but it was not organized and I was like "omg, must down clothes." The woman turned to me and said "No, no, no, you cannot put that there." And I said "oh but I have to, I have to go, Manager told me I have to keep moving." She snapped I had to move it, and I said again I didn't have time, she could move it if she thought it was going to be a problem, I had to vacuum and keep getting the clothes out. It should be known she was one of the women who never moved from the register, not because she was trapped, but because she wanted to sign people up for cards, which got her extra money. She was NOTORIOUS for this.
Next time I made it back to the station to drop off more clothes, the woman was looking concernedly down the hall, and I asked her what was up. She said she didn't have to tell me (there was a customer involved, who was standing on the other side of the register), but that all the clothing was now my to put back, because I had messed up her area by putting down the clothes earlier. I was to put back everything myself. I went still and stared at her. Tingles of rage were building, and I could have swung the metal folding table into her face after a few seconds of the fury turning in my stomach. She said this in front of a customer who was now looking at me like I was some dumb bitch teenager, when I was the one working my ass off to keep the department clean and following orders! I snapped something off, to the key of "I don't have to do anything of the sort. I was just doing what the manager told me to do." I turned on my heel and went and found the fashionable ex-boutique owner woman and she told me not to have anything to do with that side of the department the rest of the night. I didn't. From that point, I never spoke to that associate again. Just ignored her presence entirely.
Driven by politics and conflict... that's only one dynamic between two people out of dozens in the store. Everyone hated on someone; squabbles and fights were common. Female associates breathed hostility and gossip was rampant. It didn't matter if you told the manager about someone's shitty attitude or refusal to work, she wouldn't do shit. Threads of racism (against white people!) were readily apparent in my department; ageism and sneaking suspicious of classicism and an aversion to the young and educated (against short-timers, basically) were subtle but strong at many points. The country accent and customer service smile doesn't hide it all. But for some people, that's their life. I'm sure I could go back today and see the same people doing the same circuits around, cleaning out dressing rooms, and dueling bitter fights before selling credit cards to customers.
Bonus! 11. We have bullshit ideals for women. Some customers complained to me that things didn't fit them in the size they were used to... this is a horrible lie they tell themselves. Our clothing is HUGE. Absolutely enormous. I was stunned to discover in every one garment, it came with one small, two mediums, three larges, three extra-larges. Our petite section was fine, but everything else was made for the ever-fattening American woman whose beltline is getting more and more notches. I have nothing against bigger women, but the fact the entire department - every single clothing - was tailored to this whole idea of the big woman bothered me. The two betrayals of the system were the plus-size and young women's sections. The teenage section - right across from the plus-size - was ... just fucking absurd. 0s and 1s were all over the place. It never went past size 11. The common number was 3-5-7 or 4-6. And they meant what they said, no bullshit like the adult women sizes. Girls, it seemed, were meant to be ferociously skinny, wearing complicated things that screamed femininity and sexual appeal, ready to buy whatever was necessary to show off curves and skin and give delicate touches at the throat and thigh.
Right across the way? The plus-size section? ... It was called "Today's Woman." As in, women today need x1, x2, x3 clothing. Directly across from size 0 shorts with HELLO KITTY in pink written on the ass. Yes, bullshit ideals for women, HELLO, HOW ARE YOU?
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Retail is a jungle of bright colors and brand names, birthday gift wrap and employee discounts, clocking in and clocking out, foot long salami sandwiches and water bottles behind the register, system failures and long calls to the corporate headquarters to get approval for credit cards, furious women and silent women, young women who flirted with me and older men left sitting outside changing rooms, the nice ladies in Lingerie and the happy old man in Fine Jewelry and the chirpy Bridal consultant.
When I walked out the doors for the last time, I didn't say goodbye, because I didn't know it was my last day. I just clocked out and went. There was nothing more to say or do. I had cleaned my section as best I could. Nothing had gone wrong.
I quit by calling in. It was the first time I'd never left a two week's notice. I got the dark-haired woman who had interviewed me, who never failed to be nice and humorous with me. I said I wasn't getting enough hours (9 or 11 hours a week, forty minutes away...?) so I was going to get another job. She asked if I could take her with me. I laughed, she laughed. I said sorry, she said it was okay, and that was it.
I teared up hardcore when I hung up. I'm fairly sure I cried for a minute there. It was sad. I was leaving my job, everything with it, and the manager who I answered was just the right manager. God provided me with the opportunity, and he let me leave just as easily.
Next time, you see the shitty job I went to after Belk. It was something else. It lasted two weeks, but I assure you I learned a fucking lot, and I'd love to share it with you... so I will.
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