Customer Service Workers of the World Unite!

It probably comes as no surprise to most people who have worked for large companies but there is little connection between what Corporate thinks is good and what works on the individual store level.
Across this fair country, retail stores are slowly preparing for the onslaught of holiday merchandise, which we will no doubt start displaying in June in a just a few short years. To make room for these piles of boxes and cartons of be-elved items, most stores have an end of the summer sale, but even so, stockrooms will be filled with everything non-holiday related.
This is the case at the Store; the stockroom is so chock full of boxes and stacks of books, that one can barely traverse it for fear of getting hit by a tsunami of encyclopedias and unsold copies of the Da Vinci Code.
Despite this fecundity of merchandise, Corporate believes that they should be sending us innumerable boxes of crap every single day. And almost none of it is for the holiday season. We are supposed to shelves these books for a total of two weeks, then bring them to the stockroom to sit for three months while the holiday books are put in their place.
The idiocy of the situation can barely be described - and my immense anger at having to deal with it might have something to do with that as well.
Our location is not as large as some others and yet I imagine even the largest locations are having the same problem.
I understand that Corporate mindlessly sends us these boxes because someone in the organization mindlessly purchases the stock. However, dumping it on their stores without a thought of consequence is just an act of abject cruelty to those have to lug the boxes and books on rickety old carts.

Most mornings before the Store opens, we have a short meeting. Usually it is to let us know about a new company restriction on our rights and freedoms or occasionally to let us know about a new book that was recently featured in the New York Times that everyone will be coming in to buy...and which we do not currently have in stock. Sorry!
These minutes are usually held ten minutes before we open at 8 am, and on rare occasion our meeting might run a minute over.
Such was the case today and our doors opened at 8:01 am.
The first customer in was an older gentleman, who started to rant the moment his withered visage was lit by our fluorescent bulbs.
"Goddamn it! Why don't you open on time for once!"
No one paid much attention to him; as most have probably guessed we get a lot of the crazy in the store.
I was at the cash register for the morning and sure enough, the grizzled old man hobbled his way up to my register, shaking his fist the whole time.
"D'ya got that new Pat Buchanan book?"
"I'm not sure, Sir. But I can take a look for you."
"Do you actually listen to what he says to you?"
At this moment I was confused; Pat Buchanan talks to me? How could I have missed this vital mocking opportunity?
"Um...well I don't actually listen to Pat Buchanan."
"NO! No Pat. That guy, who talks your ears off and makes you open the store goddamn late every single day!"
I realized he meant our store manager and the meetings we held each morning.
"Oh yes. We get a lot of important information at those meetings."
"That's bullshit! You all look like you're falling asleep and goddamn it you don't open your store on time. That's just bullshit!"
He really liked the words "goddamn it."
Right as I was going to defend company practice once again, I noticed something horrific: the lovely and profane old man in front of me was so incensed that he found it necessary to start drooling.
And he drooled right onto my counter. A small puddle of old man saliva that seemed to grow in diameter the angrier the customer got.
Unable to take my eyes off this growing pool, I muttered to the customer that I was sorry if we were a bit late in opening the doors and I would relay his message to the manager.
He wandered off to go yell at another employee, finally breaking that thin thread of spit that connected to my counter.
The moment he was out of view, I ran over to the supply room to get a towel and a hell of a lot of sanitizer.

In retail there really isn't any 9-5. Sure one day you might be scheduled for 8:45-5:15 one day a week, but the next day you could be scheduled to work from 3:30-11:15. After years of working regular hours with a regular schedule, I am find it difficult to adjust to this irregularity.
For the past few months, I have had a fairly regular schedule, getting in early enough to accomplish something, and helping customers for the rest of the day.
It worked for me.
Recently, however, due to various managerial b.s. my hours have been screwed beyond recognition and I can barely function by the end of the day. In order to make a full 40 hours a week, I have to work extra hours on some days and on others I am barely in. My boxes of stock which previously had been so carefully unpacked, linger in corners waint for me to show them some attention. Projects that I had once had a couple of blissful early morning hours to accomplish are now taking me all day long because of the constant customer annoyance.
Needless to say I'm not happy.
Granted, I never expected any sort of regular life with a retail job, but gott in himmell, shouldn't I at least be scheduled accordance with my responsibilities?
As with so much else, it would appear I am mistaken.

One of the joys of working for a bookstore is the abundance of horrible horrible books that cross your path on a daily basis.
Here are a few that have tickled my sick sense of humor:
Dancing with Cats
This abomination is just as entertaining as the title suggests. Large older women, bemaked-up gay men, and drugged children cavorting about with overweight felines. The cats all seem to have been tossed in the air by a literal catapult. I never know who I should feel more pity for: the cats or the people.
Usually, I side with the cats.


Healing with Crystals and Gemstones
This is one of many many books that Corporate says is "New Age" and I call "self-delusional bullshit." There is no way on our slowly warming Earth that crystals can heal you. Gemstones can heal...inasmuch as they are attached to a really spectacular piece of jewelry; other than that, not really. The fact that publishers keep churning this garbage out only serves to prove that people when faced with choosing between reality and make-believe, will frequently choose make-believe,especially if it means they get to own and play with shiny things.

You The Owners Manual
While this book might actually have merit, the title alone warrants severe and active mocking. Nuff said.


Seduced By Hitler
Apart from the fact that the title goes a long way into making Hitler sound like a pedophile (a feat which I distinctly approve), the cover seals the deal. The cover shows us a dashingly handsome (if you're Eva Braun) Adolf menacingly placing his hand on the shoulder of a uniformed little Hitler Youth member. How an entire country found this man charming enough to slaughter millions of people is completely beyond me.

Shooting Bears
This is a perfect example of title meaning vs content. The book is actually not about taking a big ass gun and going into the wild and shooting randomly at bears large enough to eviscerate a grown man with one swipe of its gigantic claw. This book is actually about taking a big ass camera and doing the rest of it. Of course the lovely pictures of saliva encrusted bear maws are accompanied by stories of courage in the face of danger, i.e. bears. However, what slayed me (pun partially intended) are the stories where courage was not enough and the bears did some major damage. No amount of shots of happy little cubs will make me forget that these animals are maneaters. Shooting bears, indeed.

Despite the fact that occasionally I come across a customer who is both intelligent and aware that I am there for assistance rather than holding their hand and wiping their bottoms as they pick up those big bad books - I still pretty much hate all the people that come into the Store.
Of course they don't have to set foot in the building for me to despise them. Over the past couple of weeks I've been lucky enough to answer the phone when the neediest motherfuckers in the world call in. I have no problem helping someone who is looking for a book, I mean, hey that's my job. But calling a store and asking for a textbook with the easily specified title "Algebra I" without any additional information and then personally attacking me for not being able to locate said book, I believe that is too much. After another ten minutes of my explaining how the ISBN (International Standard Book Number) number works and how having that number would help me help her find the list of ten textbooks with the most generic names possible, the woman was just about to finally hang up the phone and I thought I would finally be free. However, no such luck. And as for the tenth time I say "So sorry ma'am but without those ISBN's I just can't locate English Textbook II" and start to put the receiver down, when I hear "Oh, but I have a few of those ISBN things you were talking about. Would that help?"
This is what I wanted to say to her:
Would that help? Hrm...let's think. As soon as you told me you were looking for specific textbooks, I mentioned ISBN's. Then when you kept listing the titles, I made sure that you knew an ISBN would be the only way to locate your specific Algebra I book. And then I mentioned those pesky ISBN's yet again when I suggested you contact your child's school to get the numbers so we could order in the books. But it took ten excruciating minutes of my repeating the exact same words for them to sink into your cretenious and plodding brain. Then and only then does something perk up in your insignificant noggin to say "ISBN...ISBN....oh I have some of those! Would that help?" Yes! Yes, you damned idiotic jackass! Yes, it would most certainly help!

But I didn't say any of these things, much as I wanted to.
I gritted my teeth, counted to five and replied "Why yes, those would be most helpful indeed."
I plan to bill the store for any ensuing dental work.

There's been all sorts of "union" talk at the Store.
Broken A/C during one of the hottest weeks of the year, managers with no people skills, the ginsuing of everyone's hours - both part and full time - merely because we can't make sales similar to last summer's Harry Potter-mania...all of this has caused me discomfort, annoyance, and poverty in direct order.
However, it is the latest bullcrap that is pushing me over the edge.
Because of the slicing and dicing of hours, we who have committed to working full time (40 hours) have to work whenever we're offered in order to make up those full 40 hours and cover other departments during that time. So some days I'm working at the cash register for almost four hours a day instead of actually doing what I was hired to do. All my immense talent and genius wasted behind a register.
OK, that was going overboard a bit.
But yes, scheduling.
And it's not just the duties that have changed, but as mentioned before, the hours as well. On Mondays I now work 9 1/2 hours. That's right, 9 1/2 hours. Granted at previous jobs this was not really such a big deal. On occasion I'd have ten hour days. But at those positions I had a chair. I had a desk. I had a computer with internet access. Here I stand on my feet for all that time. Sure I get an hour for lunch but that is just a drop in the bucket to the amount of time I have to remain standing. By the end of yesterday I was ready to start shooting up the place with a very very large gun with very very large bullets. As one might guess, I'm not a huge fan of the human race and our Store's customers in particular. And over the past few months, I've adjusted to having to deal with these vipers and soul-suckers for an actual seven hours a day; I trained my body and my psyche to repress all violent and rash thoughts and actions for those seven hours a day. But now...now I have to extend that control to EIGHT!
And I gotta tell you, I'm not all that sure I'll be making it.
I'm well aware that some people might not see the problem with all this but let me remind you: due to the fact that we are considered to be currently "not making money" (Thank you Harry), we are consistently understaffed and therefore working twice as hard to make up for the lack of bookseller prescence on the floor. This means constant phone-answering and customer-helping on top of handling stock, merchandising, and projects. Therefore while it is just an extra hour, by the end of the day I had customers asking me if I was alright.
Where are those damned workers organizations when you need them?

It's amazing how a day off can give you perspective. Peace, quiet and the ability to sit for long periods of time can really give one pause and the chance to reflect.
And on what, pray tell, have I been reflecting?
Those who succumb to the allure of minimal responsibility, the lack of a suit or business attire, and the chance to get an additional discount on books; in short, I have been reflecting on those in my "profession".
What prompts someone to take a job in customer service? Surely it's not someone who declares themselves a people person; about five minutes in the Store will cure you of that ill. And since I find myself surrounded by a good portion of college educated individuals, I know it's not just because they couldn't necessarily find something else. And since we sell books and not something like shoes, I know that the majority of my compatriots have not yet reached the point of being utterly and completely destroyed in both mind and soul that they just no longer care.
So what is it?
For a good number of us I think this job is a placeholder. Not quite sure which path our lives should take, we take the path of least resistance for the time being. Rather than lose our minds and souls behind a desk for a year or so whilst we try to suss out our futures, we haul piles of books - both crappy and not - and assist customers - both idiotic and not. It might not be noble or well paying or even particularly stimulating, but it suffices as a stopgap.
To be sure there are those who see this job as more than a mere job and more like a calling. And though I find that on occasion I must question their sanity, over all I say more power to them.
However, this is not my calling. This is not the final stop for me on my way to the grave.
But damn if I'm not going to try to enjoy to bitter beauty of it all while I'm there.