Pat sucks

Those of you who know me probably had to hear me complain A LOT about my previous job in DC. I won't mention the name here, because I've learned a thing or two about Google Alerts since this whole blogger thingy got going, but I was a peon and, worse than that, I was treated like a stupid peon.

However, that was not my worst job. While I have never collected rodents from barns (although I handled them a lot when I worked in that Tallahassee pet store, which, in retrospect, was a really fun job), or let my soul escape through a headset in a massive call center, or pulled jaw bones out of deer (wha??), I did spend a month one summer working in a Florida department store that I later quit for a lower-paying job with the county school board.

I'm not sure this particular type of department store exists in places that have a lower percentage of retirees than Florida. The store is basically crammed full of white and pastel colored shorts; t-shirts with rope, mirrors, and anchors sewed onto them; one-piece bathing suits that begin with size 12; and acres of "gifts" that include lighthouse lamps, seagull lamps, dolphin garden sculptures, magnetic pelican mailbox covers, and, to reach out to the Father's Day crowd, a handful of tiny and useless 'kits' that included everything from roadside emergency kits to manicure kits to tie organizing kits. I applied for this job right before the end of my junior (I think) year of high school, thinking I should at least find out what working retail is like. Although I expected a sales position on the floor, they put me in the service office, which included the gift wrapping station, postal service center, phones, and the admin offices. By my second week there, they had asked me, this 16-year-old kid making $6 an hour, to take over the entire financial recording and accounting for the store. I did it for about a week, then told them I wouldn't do it anymore. If I screwed up, which was highly probable since I had no experience with accounting, the store got called out by "corporate" and I knew very well I would be the one tossed onto the pyre.

The postal stuff wasn't so bad-- mostly old ladies needing to buy stamps and occasionally sending a package. Gift wrapping was probably the best part because I got to play with the ribbons and things, although if the old people weren't satisfied with my gift wrapping abilities, they let me know it. They also got mad that I wasn't allowed to give more than one bow per package, no matter how big. One time, around Mother's Day (I'm certain the busiest time of year for this place) someone gave me a buck or two as a 'tip' for wrapping her gift. I, being young and naive and in awe of authority figures, was worried that I might not be allowed to take money from customers (remember, I grew up in Lakeland, the home of Publix, the home of strict rules against tipping your bag boys [Glenn]), so I asked one of my managers what I should do with it. She took the bills from me as if they were infected or dripping with some unknown substance and said, 'I guess we'll just put it in petty cash.'

This particular boss, Pat, was atrocious. For starters, she reeked of rotten tuna ALL THE TIME. I understand that some middle-aged women have smell issues every once in a while (I mostly only know this from TV commercials), but this woman smelled bad all the time, and I used to step back from her when she was talking to me. We had a dress code that women had to wear pantyhose everyday. This is during a Florida summer, remember, and I stood in a tiny office all day, peeking into the rest of the store via a small cut-out in the wall for the customer service desk. So one day I came to work wearing an ankle-length skirt and dressy sandals with straps that went between my toes. Therefore, no pantyhose. But Pat called me on it. "In this store, we wear pantyhose everyday. I suppose I'll let you go this time, but don't try this again." Seriously? I can count the number of times I've worn pantyhose since then on one hand.

We also had a rule about never, EVER, even for a second, even when no customers were within miles, ever leaving the service desk unattended. So one particularly boring day (keep in mind that the highlight of most days was catching the muzak version of 'Parsley, Sage, Rosemary, and Thyme'), I had to pee. I paged a manager on the intercom, but none came. I paged a few minutes later, and none came. A few minutes later I thought I would wet my pants, so I paged again and then darted the 6 feet across the hall to the ladies room. When I returned to the office, there was Pat, clipboard in hand, wiggly smell lines radiating from her body, looking pissed. "Where were you?!" Prostrating myself, I wept "I'm sorry, I paged a manager several times, but no one came and I had to go to the restroom!" Pat raised her chin(s) and said "Next time, then, either hurry up or sign out before you do that." Yes, she told me to clock out before I went to the bathroom so they wouldn't have to pay me for all that valuable time I spent peeing.

There were many, many little degradations besides these, but even as a high schooler I knew no one should have to put up with that kind of crap and have to act grateful for the opportunity to do so. There are other minimum wage jobs out there. So I got one with the school board for the rest of the summer where I got paid less and had to drive about four times as far, but I sat in an air conditioned office and my boss told me on the first day, "You should probably bring a book. Things sometimes get pretty slow here." It was awesome, and I also learned a lot about that 'good ol' boy' culture first hand. Actually, it probably helped a lot in my Washington adjustment. Except for the having to do work part.