When I started college I took a part-time job as the activity room monitor on the second floor of my dorm building. I sat at a desk with a big key chain and took reservations. One room had a pool table, another had a piano and another was rehearsal space for the actors and singers. My friends would sit with me around the desk and we’d talk and do homework. I made four dollars an hour. They made nothing. The following year I thought I should upgrade to a job that, at the very least, required me to wear shoes. I walked seven blocks north to 5th Avenue and 17th Street and filled out an application to work at the Gap. I lasted three months.
September 14, 1990
1. Unchained Melody, The Righteous Brothers
2. Praying for Time, George Michael
3. I Don’t Have the Heart, James Ingram
4. Say a Prayer, Breathe
5. This is the Right Time, Lisa Stansfield
6. Something Happened on the Way to Heaven, Phil Collins
7. Heart of Stone, Taylor Dayne
8. Dirty Cash, The Adventures of Stevie V.
9. Can’t Stop Falling Into Love, Cheap Trick
10. Vision of Love, Mariah Carey
At the interview I sat in a chair in a back office opposite an overeager manager who asked me what I would do in various hypothetical situations. “What if you saw a coworker stealing a pair of socks?” she wanted to know. My first thought was that I’d probably try to reason with the guy and tell him he’d be better off stealing from Barney’s, but I knew that wasn’t the answer she wanted to hear. It’s never quite as fun giving people the answer they want to hear when so many other answers are there for the taking.
In high school we did a production of “Barefoot in the Park” and between shows on a Sunday afternoon some of the cast and crew broke into the school cafeteria and helped themselves to handfuls of ice cream sandwiches. They even shared the wealth with the rest of us. The next day, when the lunch ladies opened the freezer and discovered that dessert was missing, we were called into the Dean’s office. He asked us each in turn if we’d eaten any ice cream, even one bite, and I, truthfully, answered no. “Why?” he asked. “Why is it everyone else here had ice cream but not you?” He wanted me to say something along the lines of: “Because it’s wrong to eat stolen food,” but instead I said, “Because no one offered me any.” It wasn’t the answer he wanted to hear, but it was funnier, and in that moment of tension that’s all that mattered to me. It also happened to be true.
Whatever answer I gave to the Gap manager about the stolen socks must have been what she wanted to hear because the next day I was folding pocket T’s. It was a tedious, boring activity. No sooner would you have your table folded when a customer would come along and start touching things. These customers annoyed me. All customers annoyed me, really. They were always in my way. I would have much preferred it if management had just kept the doors locked, let me fold everything and then sent me home. That’s a job I can get behind, feel good about. But with people free to roam the store there was never any sense of accomplishment.
At the Gap a color is never what you think it is. Red is never red. It’s “Mercury” or “Rose Parade” or something completely baffling like “Piñata.” On the first day of work I was given a handbook with all the color names. I was expected to memorize them. Like the folding of the shirts, this was a ongoing task because the names kept changing. Week after week new stock would arrive, and a green shirt called “Moss” on Monday would, by Tuesday morning, be called “Wasabi.” I refused to participate. “I need the tan in a medium,” I’d say to the stockroom person. “Tan?” they’d say, as if I’d invented the word right there on the spot. “Yes, tan,” I’d say, “light brown.” “Oh, you mean Chickpea.”
After closing, we were expected to stay for an extra hour or two to restock the shelves and bring out new merchandise. If there was no new merchandise, we simply rearranged what was already there. Mannequins were given makeovers, racks were moved, shirts on hangers were folded and put on shelves, and pants on shelves were unfolded and put on hangers. The objective was to fool customers into thinking there was new stuff when really it was just old stuff in a new place. Katie, a perky manager with a lisp, was often in charge of this, and her favorite expression was “cool beans.” Tell her you finished arranging all the jeans by size and she’d say, “cool beans.” Tell her you’re about to take your break and she’d say, “cool beans.” Tell her you’re coughing up a lung and won’t be coming into work that day and she’d sigh and tell you how many other people called in sick and then question the severity of your sickness. Appease her by saying you’ll do what you can to drag yourself down there and she’d say, “cool beans.” I spoke to her only when absolutely necessary.
Expressions are bad enough but worse when they involve food. “He’s a good egg,” people sometimes say. I don’t like picturing people as eggs. This could be because I don’t like to eat. I like to cook, but I don’t like to eat. It takes too long. I’m a very slow eater. My partner says I eat like an eight-year-old girl, but I once saw an eight-year-old girl stuff down an entire lobster roll in half a minute flat along with a side of curly fries and a can of Sprite so I’m not exactly sure what he means.
Stores often use acronyms to teach their employees about customer service and sales techniques. Ours was GAP ACT. G: Greet the customer. A: Ask them if they need help. P: Provide them with what they want. This all seemed like common sense to me and therefore nonsense. Why wouldn’t I provide them with what they want? Sure, customers annoyed me, but I knew enough not to show it. This is pretty much my approach to kids. I don’t care for them either, but I’m not about to go knock one over.
A: Add-on. In other words, Accessorize. “Do you need any socks today?” They expected us to say this to people, preferably while P: providing the socks, those that weren’t being hypothetically stolen by barefoot employees I guess. C: Close the sale and T: thank the customer. “Thank you for coming to the Gap.” They expected us to say this, too. I always shortened it to a simple: “Goodbye.” In other words, Go. Get Out.
When I returned to the city after winter break, the managers called me into the back office and gave me the good news that I was getting a raise. Fifty cents an hour. I gave them the good news that I was quitting.
Years later, I’ve found that certain aspects of the job have stayed with me. I’m compelled to straighten up in Macy’s, and I’ve often asked myself, Do I need socks? Even things I resisted took hold. People often comment on the color of my eyes. Most say they’re green. I say they’re Avocado.
