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Boring adventures in inventory
In deference to the McCarthyistic paranoia that I've been feeling over people getting fired for blogging about their co-workers, the names in the following work-related rant have been changed to protect the guilty. Also if this seems a bit disjointed at times, bear with me...I got about 45 minutes of sleep last night between jobs.
Saturday night I did The Body Shop, normally one of the easiest inventories we do. Anyone who has ever set foot in one can probably see why: They are small, tidy, and don't sell things like fishing hooks in dump bins or rusty rebar that we have to paw through (yes, I have had to count both in the past). The joy of a simple inventory was diluted a bit by the fact that I had to do it with D., who from past experience I knew was fond of shamelessly cherrypicking because she was running the store and leaving all the crap to me.
But before we could even put a machine on, D. was having trouble getting into the store with her cart of equipment because the narrow aisles were also full of customers. As we were both about 15 minutes early anyway, we stood in the mall around the corner chatting. It is highly relevant to emphasize that we were in a side pocket of the mall, like where they put those sprawling department store entrances that no one ever goes into. It wasn't long before mall security was on the scene to investigate the malfeasance.
"Ello, 'ello, what's all this then?" he asked (well, not really in those words, but it would have been damn funny if he had. Mall security as a rule isn't known for their sense of humor though. Probably because they're so bitter from not getting the respect real cops do).
"We're here for inventory," D. explained, pointing to the store whose outer wall we were hugging closely, as I said well out of the way of traffic.
"No carts allowed in the mall, ma'am" he said gruffly. Actually what he meant was that we were not allowed in the mall. Security has in the past come right out and told us, if we must be in the mall during business hours, to please move about as much as possible using the service corridors and drainage pipes so as not to be seen by customers. I guess they want to spare their paying clientele the unsettling possibility of coming face to face with actual members of the mid to lower working class. Besides, if they let us use the main mall areas for travelling, next thing you know we'll want to eat in the food court like normal people, and where will it end? I'm not knocking all mall security, mind you. Cherry Creek for example, a far swankier and chi-chi-poo-poo-ier mall, couldn't care less where we walk. It's only Park Meadows personnel who are asshats.
So anyway, back to Barney Fife. D. pointed to the store full of customers that she didn't want to mow down and told him that we were just waiting for them to finish shopping.
Singlemindedly determined, he answered, "This cart can't stay here."
Oh Christ on a cracker. It was becoming clearer by the minute why this guy chose a career in law enforcement, and clearer still why he was only a Rent-a-Cop. Sure, I recognized this as a thinly-veiled attempt to justify his job, but I doubted that pointing it out would have improved the situation, so I kept out of it. Thank god just then the knot of customers cleared up and we were able to enter or it may have come to violence, because damn it all, Officer Krupke just could not abide us and our stabbing eyesore of a cart out there among decent, God-fearing folk. He finally left us alone, hopefully to go harass a woman pushing around one of those double-wide strollers that take up the entire aisle.
Unfortunately the inventory start time didn't take into account how little work there would be for two people, so we finished the backroom and understocks with a half hour to spare before closing time. D. said I had to take a break, so I decided to put my willpower to an impromptu test and headed next door to my favorite store in the whole wide world, Hot Topic, without a penny to spend. Oh, the wondrous, magical things I saw there! Nightmare Before Christmas thingies. Crow thingies. Napoleon Dynamite thingies. South Park thingies. I saw a bumper sticker that said, "I'm not undressing you with my eyes. I'm adding a sweater" (hilarious, but perhaps more appropriate as a t-shirt). I saw a Special Edition Director's Cut Donnie Darko DVD in a metal tin with an exclusive teeny Frank mask necklace included that I never even knew existed (obviously or it would already be mine) *shaking fist at diabolically evil DVD industry* I saw a music sampler full of some of my favorite bands, VNV Nation, Apoptygma Berserk, Razed in Black, some unknown band but featuring Robert Smith, all for a measly six bucks. Sadly this week six bucks is a small fortune to me that can buy almost two whole gallons of milk, or enough gas to get me to my next paycheck. I killed ten minutes in there before starting to think that maybe my seemingly aimless meandering might appear to be with intent to shoplift, so I meandered towards the door as gracefully as I could, wishing the heavily tattooed and pierced store clerk a nice night to hopefully allay some suspicion (every employee bathroom has a poster warning that the shoplifter wants to attract as little attention to him/herself as possible). He smiled at me sweetly.
It irked me to find when I returned to the inventory that D. had putzed around on the computer the whole time so that SHE didn't have to go off the clock. It irked me even more when we started counting and she putzed around on the opposite side of the store so I would have to count all the cosmetics alone (note: I said I was irked, but not surprised). It was right about this time that Hot Topic, I love it so, but the employees started playing this ear-bleeding, wall-shaking death metal while they closed up. The Body Shop people rolled their eyes and explained that this went on every night (and morning). Where the hell was Officer Tackleberry while this was going on? No doubt taking a well-earned donut break after dealing with us shifty inventory people so handily. Now where was I? Oh, the cosmetics. I wasn't going to say anything, I tried to shrug it off, and I would have grudgingly counted them all myself if D. were still on her wall the whole time. But no, she finished it and came over to mine, walking right past the last makeup section on her way to still more easy lotions and tubs of mud mask.
"Ummm, there's one more section over here I wouldn't mind help with," no force on earth could have prevented me from saying.
She reluctantly came back to it, using the excuse that "some people don't like when other people count too close to them." Well sure, I would normally feel that way, but even the most possessive of their personal space don't mind sacrificing it a little when the alternative is counting hundreds more lipsticks and eyeliners. Oh she counted it, but with so much sighing, groaning, dropping things, cursing, and generally making such an ordeal out of it that I genuinely wished I had just kept my mouth shut.
The thing about Body Shop is, it can be tricksy. It looks deceptively simple, but a lot of their product comes in virtually identical packaging with tiny differences. For instance, shampoo for oily vs. normal hair. Or men's moisturizing cream vs. invigorating aftershave (I was especially proud of catching the one in the back behind the others). Or three different kinds of aromatherapy oils intermingling in peaceful harmony and identically sized and colored boxes. D. couldn't be bothered to check for things like this, so for every mistake they found on me, they must have found five on her. As the stack of corrections piled up, she murmured to me defensively, "This store isn't very well prepared." Oh, so it's the STORE'S fault you're assuming everything on the shelf is the same? I've been at this job for 13+ years and have yet to attain this level of hubris (except in cases where the store truly, disastrously, infuriatingly isn't prepared, and the occasional misplaced product on the back of the shelf is certainly nowhere near this level. D. knows this as well as I do, making her sorry attempt at blame all the more pitiful). I only hope if we get written up for being inaccurate and fingers start being pointed, some time will be taken to research whose ID number is on the (vast, did I mention vast?) majority of mistakes. It really is amazing how optimistic I still am lo after all these years.
I wish I had some clever way to wrap this up but I don't. Besides, I am way overdue for my nappy nap.
Saturday night I did The Body Shop, normally one of the easiest inventories we do. Anyone who has ever set foot in one can probably see why: They are small, tidy, and don't sell things like fishing hooks in dump bins or rusty rebar that we have to paw through (yes, I have had to count both in the past). The joy of a simple inventory was diluted a bit by the fact that I had to do it with D., who from past experience I knew was fond of shamelessly cherrypicking because she was running the store and leaving all the crap to me.
But before we could even put a machine on, D. was having trouble getting into the store with her cart of equipment because the narrow aisles were also full of customers. As we were both about 15 minutes early anyway, we stood in the mall around the corner chatting. It is highly relevant to emphasize that we were in a side pocket of the mall, like where they put those sprawling department store entrances that no one ever goes into. It wasn't long before mall security was on the scene to investigate the malfeasance.
"Ello, 'ello, what's all this then?" he asked (well, not really in those words, but it would have been damn funny if he had. Mall security as a rule isn't known for their sense of humor though. Probably because they're so bitter from not getting the respect real cops do).
"We're here for inventory," D. explained, pointing to the store whose outer wall we were hugging closely, as I said well out of the way of traffic.
"No carts allowed in the mall, ma'am" he said gruffly. Actually what he meant was that we were not allowed in the mall. Security has in the past come right out and told us, if we must be in the mall during business hours, to please move about as much as possible using the service corridors and drainage pipes so as not to be seen by customers. I guess they want to spare their paying clientele the unsettling possibility of coming face to face with actual members of the mid to lower working class. Besides, if they let us use the main mall areas for travelling, next thing you know we'll want to eat in the food court like normal people, and where will it end? I'm not knocking all mall security, mind you. Cherry Creek for example, a far swankier and chi-chi-poo-poo-ier mall, couldn't care less where we walk. It's only Park Meadows personnel who are asshats.
So anyway, back to Barney Fife. D. pointed to the store full of customers that she didn't want to mow down and told him that we were just waiting for them to finish shopping.
Singlemindedly determined, he answered, "This cart can't stay here."
Oh Christ on a cracker. It was becoming clearer by the minute why this guy chose a career in law enforcement, and clearer still why he was only a Rent-a-Cop. Sure, I recognized this as a thinly-veiled attempt to justify his job, but I doubted that pointing it out would have improved the situation, so I kept out of it. Thank god just then the knot of customers cleared up and we were able to enter or it may have come to violence, because damn it all, Officer Krupke just could not abide us and our stabbing eyesore of a cart out there among decent, God-fearing folk. He finally left us alone, hopefully to go harass a woman pushing around one of those double-wide strollers that take up the entire aisle.
Unfortunately the inventory start time didn't take into account how little work there would be for two people, so we finished the backroom and understocks with a half hour to spare before closing time. D. said I had to take a break, so I decided to put my willpower to an impromptu test and headed next door to my favorite store in the whole wide world, Hot Topic, without a penny to spend. Oh, the wondrous, magical things I saw there! Nightmare Before Christmas thingies. Crow thingies. Napoleon Dynamite thingies. South Park thingies. I saw a bumper sticker that said, "I'm not undressing you with my eyes. I'm adding a sweater" (hilarious, but perhaps more appropriate as a t-shirt). I saw a Special Edition Director's Cut Donnie Darko DVD in a metal tin with an exclusive teeny Frank mask necklace included that I never even knew existed (obviously or it would already be mine) *shaking fist at diabolically evil DVD industry* I saw a music sampler full of some of my favorite bands, VNV Nation, Apoptygma Berserk, Razed in Black, some unknown band but featuring Robert Smith, all for a measly six bucks. Sadly this week six bucks is a small fortune to me that can buy almost two whole gallons of milk, or enough gas to get me to my next paycheck. I killed ten minutes in there before starting to think that maybe my seemingly aimless meandering might appear to be with intent to shoplift, so I meandered towards the door as gracefully as I could, wishing the heavily tattooed and pierced store clerk a nice night to hopefully allay some suspicion (every employee bathroom has a poster warning that the shoplifter wants to attract as little attention to him/herself as possible). He smiled at me sweetly.
It irked me to find when I returned to the inventory that D. had putzed around on the computer the whole time so that SHE didn't have to go off the clock. It irked me even more when we started counting and she putzed around on the opposite side of the store so I would have to count all the cosmetics alone (note: I said I was irked, but not surprised). It was right about this time that Hot Topic, I love it so, but the employees started playing this ear-bleeding, wall-shaking death metal while they closed up. The Body Shop people rolled their eyes and explained that this went on every night (and morning). Where the hell was Officer Tackleberry while this was going on? No doubt taking a well-earned donut break after dealing with us shifty inventory people so handily. Now where was I? Oh, the cosmetics. I wasn't going to say anything, I tried to shrug it off, and I would have grudgingly counted them all myself if D. were still on her wall the whole time. But no, she finished it and came over to mine, walking right past the last makeup section on her way to still more easy lotions and tubs of mud mask.
"Ummm, there's one more section over here I wouldn't mind help with," no force on earth could have prevented me from saying.
She reluctantly came back to it, using the excuse that "some people don't like when other people count too close to them." Well sure, I would normally feel that way, but even the most possessive of their personal space don't mind sacrificing it a little when the alternative is counting hundreds more lipsticks and eyeliners. Oh she counted it, but with so much sighing, groaning, dropping things, cursing, and generally making such an ordeal out of it that I genuinely wished I had just kept my mouth shut.
The thing about Body Shop is, it can be tricksy. It looks deceptively simple, but a lot of their product comes in virtually identical packaging with tiny differences. For instance, shampoo for oily vs. normal hair. Or men's moisturizing cream vs. invigorating aftershave (I was especially proud of catching the one in the back behind the others). Or three different kinds of aromatherapy oils intermingling in peaceful harmony and identically sized and colored boxes. D. couldn't be bothered to check for things like this, so for every mistake they found on me, they must have found five on her. As the stack of corrections piled up, she murmured to me defensively, "This store isn't very well prepared." Oh, so it's the STORE'S fault you're assuming everything on the shelf is the same? I've been at this job for 13+ years and have yet to attain this level of hubris (except in cases where the store truly, disastrously, infuriatingly isn't prepared, and the occasional misplaced product on the back of the shelf is certainly nowhere near this level. D. knows this as well as I do, making her sorry attempt at blame all the more pitiful). I only hope if we get written up for being inaccurate and fingers start being pointed, some time will be taken to research whose ID number is on the (vast, did I mention vast?) majority of mistakes. It really is amazing how optimistic I still am lo after all these years.
I wish I had some clever way to wrap this up but I don't. Besides, I am way overdue for my nappy nap.