Rejection is a form of protection

In recognition of my need to increase my income, last week I applied to a local home improvement box store to work as a part-time merchandiser. In my previous blog post, I predicted I would not receive a response. In fact, a few days later, I received an email inviting me for further screening. Am I willing to work night shifts? Am I okay with working part-time? Am I okay with earning $13.00 per hour? Am I willing to take an on-the-spot drug test after the interview? Answering no to any of these questions means I would be disqualified, so of course I answered yes, thinking, if nothing else, it will be something to blog about. The final screen was a calendar inviting me to choose a day and time for the interview. I set the interview time for today at 11:00 am, a nice civilized hour, thinking it might be a while before I see such a civilized hour again.

As I closed the web page, I thought, all right! I made the first cut! Well, really the second cut, but who is counting. I immediately went into interview prep mode. What would they be likely to ask me? I pictured myself sitting across a desk, well, more likely a folding table in some dark corner in the off-stage storage warehouse. The traditional first interview question is Tell me about yourself.

I pictured myself saying, Well, I like to build things. In accordance with the adage of show don't tell, I decided to wow the interviewer (interviewers? Would it be a panel?) with some photos of things I have built over the past sixteen years with lumber purchased from their store. I took photos of the cat tree, my umpteen shelves, more shelves, and the aqua-topped table in the bathroom that shelters the cat box (strategically omitting the box itself, no easy feat). I artfully arranged the photos in a Word document and enhanced the color saturation of each one slightly to really make them pop on the page. I printed the photos on one double-sided sheet of card stock (to give it substance in the hand) and slipped it into a non-glare plastic sleeve left over from my teaching days.

Now, what should I wear? The interview instructions required “business casual.” I looked up the term on the Internet to make sure my idea of business casual conformed with current style. After perusing multiple websites aimed at much younger audiences, I realized I should focus on being myself. I wanted to be comfortable, not too casual, not too weird. And not too old. I dug out my black pinwale cords and, in a nod to current fashion, altered the flares out of the hems. I'd altered the waist and hips several years ago but after I lost a few pounds over the past year, the pants gape in the waist. It's hard to get pants to fit given my unique set of figure flaws, I mean, figure challenges. I planned to pull a long t-shirt over the waist and try to remember to suck in my gut. Once I was seated, my bulging tummy probably wouldn't show much if I sat up straight. Besides, I anticipated they would be too busy admiring my photo portfolio.

The unspoken elephant in the room would be my age. As I mentioned last week, the job application website would not allow employment dates older than 1993. Perhaps it was a web development error; maybe the prohibition was intentional. In any case, I knew that I would have to acknowledge openly that I am experienced. To appear younger, I decided to wear flat and perky white-laced gray tennis shoes.

Finally, I wondered, did I need to bring a resume? I reviewed my myriad resumes and CVs written over the past few years. All the jobs focused on teaching and academics. None of the jobs I listed were older than 1993. Hmmm. I started to add the art-supply sales job I held in 1985, thinking it might be relevant to this merchandising position. After looking at the date 1985 in black and white, I decided to print a copy of my current CV. It's two pages, focused on my short list of publications. I anticipated the interviewers might not care but at least I had something to show them if they asked for a resume. And maybe I could score some wow points for having a PhD. Maybe I would be the overly educated mascot of the merchandising team. Maybe they would call me Doc.

I got dressed and left the Love Shack in plenty of time. I drove to the box store and found a place in back to park in the shade (it's going to be 90°F today). I hiked across the parking lot to the mall entrance.

In the 1970s, my friends and I visited this mall often. I bought fabric at Discount Fabrics and many pairs of shoes at Thom McCanns. I bought a rayon print dress in 1975 at Casual Corner—I wore that dress once. I shopped at Montgomery Wards, White Front, and the Emporium and watched movies in the cineplex (multiple theaters in one location, how novel!).

Today, the mall air was refreshingly cool. A few mallwalkers strolled to the 60's musak. I walked around the corner toward the door into the home improvement store, noticing the fitness gym was still there but the bike store was gone. The one remaining food stand, a hotdog kiosk, was shuttered.

The door from the mall into the home improvement store opened as I approached. The overweight employee manning the register looked up from his phone and said “Welcome in,” the phrase recently adopted by my bank. Must be a customer service trend. I acknowledged his welcome, feeling self-conscious that I might soon be sharing an employee break room with this guy.

I shuffled through the store to the service desk and asked for the merchandising manager. In a few minutes, a burly young man with pink cheeks and wire-rimmed glasses appeared. We shook hands.

“Let me do a quick walk-through with you so you know what we do,” he said. He pointed to the display of patio furniture at the front of the store. “We organized that display a few days ago. It's looking a little . . . ” I didn't want to complete his sentence. I would have said frayed. Tatty. Disheveled. Neglected. Being highly educated means I can usually draw from a deep repertoire of adjectives. Perhaps not an essential trait for a merchandiser, but maybe some customers would be amused.

“Okay,” I said, thinking, I could move around patio furniture.

 Next, the manager hustled toward the garden center. I scuttled along in his wake.

“We work for a company that is hired by the store,” he said over his shoulder.

“Oh, okay,” I said. Huh, did not know that. The merchandisers are not actually store associates.

We went through the sliding doors into the garden center. Past the rows of potted azaleas I could see a half-dozen people in orange vests milling around between twenty-foot high warehouse shelves. I quickly gauged ages and genders. Mostly men, mostly young. One robustly built young woman with long blonde hair. One older guy with a grizzled beard and glasses. I thought, okay.

The manager grabbed the older guy's smartphone and quickly scrolled through the screens, explaining how the team received and followed plans for building the displays. I barely heard what he was saying. Next to me was a row of tall cardboard boxes wrapped in strapping tape. I could not tell what was inside. I reached out and gave one box a tentative shove. It barely budged. It was clear the box was taller, wider, and much heavier than me. There is no way I would be able to lift or even move that box.

I tried to make eye contact with the older worker, looking for some encouragement. He did not look at me. For a tiny moment, I thought about what I would tell Mom. Then I remembered, I don't tell my mother anything about my life anymore. I tell her stories about the neighbors, the birds, the cat. I show her pictures I take on my walks in the park. I share with her the photos my sister sends from France: rainbows, sailboats, and red alstroemerias. We discuss the fascinating lives of Chip and Joanna, the stars of Fixer Upper, and I remind Mom of their new son's name. We marvel at the height of the Property Brothers. I joke that we should start our own mother-daughter demolition team.

The manager turned to head back toward the store. I followed, feeling fragile and delicate. Who do I think I am?

“So that's what we do,” he said. “Day in and day out. Every day.”

“I don't think I would be able to move boxes that heavy,” I said.

He stopped. “Thanks for coming in today, Miss Carol,” he said. We shook hands. I turned and headed back to the entrance to the mall.

The entire “interview” took less time than it took me to walk back to my car.

I put on my baseball cap and drove home, admiring the blue sky, breathing in the warm air, and reveling in a fizzy sense of freedom that comes from not knowing what comes next.

The tiger in the grass at the self-scan checkout

I like to scan my own groceries. Call me a control freak, but I feel empowered when I'm the one moving my broccoli from basket to bag. I like feeling the weight of the zucchinis and realizing, dang, those things are expensive this week. Maybe I should eat more onions. I like having time to bag my stuff the way I want, with frozen peas protecting the eggs, and onions protecting the apples. Unfortunately, my pleasant buying and bagging experience was upset today by an interaction I had with an employee at my favorite grocery store, Winco.

I used to think Winco was for losers. My mother shopped at Winco. Then I started shopping for her and found out I could save a lot of money shopping there. Now I shop at Winco weekly. Winco is an employee-owned store. Usually that means people who work there are friendly and helpful. However, it also apparently means that certain employee-owner control freaks are adamant about enforcing the fifteen-items-or-less rule at the self-scan checkout.

I don't go grocery shopping to make trouble. On a sunny day, I tend to smile at everyone, whether they smile at me or not. Sunshine makes me bold. My default sunshine mode is friendly. However, on a sunny day, I don't feel inclined to back down from a confrontation when I think I'm right. If it had been raining today, I might have given in and wheeled my eighteen items to the regular checkout line. I would have slunk out without making eye contact with anyone, another browbeaten customer who will daydream about returning later with a gallon of gasoline and a Bic lighter.

Just kidddding. I'm not violent. But today I felt energized by the sunshine and ready to fight for my right to scan my own. Here is what happened.

The sign above the six self-scan stations says "Express Line: About 15 items." I usually don't bother to count my items. No other cashiers have bothered to count the items in my cart and enforce the fifteen-item limit. The only time the number of items is an issue is when a certain employee is manning the self-scan department. He's a small man, younger than me, I'm guessing, with sandy hair, a sparse mustache, and a stink-eye expression I know only too well from years of looking in mirrors.

When I wheeled my half-empty cart to an unoccupied self-scan station, he stood up straight in his red apron and sent me a look I've come to recognize. Uh-oh, here it comes, I thought. We've had this conversation before.

I waited. Wait for it. I picked up one of my items. Wait for it.... yes.

“This line is for fifteen items only,” the man in the red apron said. I smiled. Bring it on, I thought. Only one other station was occupied. If there had been a crowd or a line, I wouldn't have bothered revving up for this, but energized by sunshine and righteousness, I felt lively.

“I have eighteen items,” I said, lifting my chin at him.

“The sign says fifteen items."

“The sign says 'About' fifteen items,” I said.

He squinted his eyes at me and looked flustered. “About fifteen means fifteen,” he said.

“No, about fifteen means about fifteen,” I replied firmly. I waited. If he told me to leave, I would leave. However, he threw up his hands and surrendered.

“Do what you want,” he said and turned away, furious.

For a moment, I felt guilty, like, wow, should I back down? Should I not have argued? Am I a bad person? Then I thought, hey, I'm the customer here. I don't care if he owns the whole store. Nobody is being harmed by my scanning eighteen items instead of fifteen. And if the employee-owners really cared so much, they should change their damn sign to read "No more than 15 items! Carol, that means you!"

I efficiently (and I admit, somewhat triumphantly) scanned my eighteen items, but as I scanned, I realized I might have missed an opportunity to make someone feel better by letting them win a trivial argument. Instead I indulged my desire to stand up for my consumer right to pitch a fit.

I could have backed down. However, would that have been better? He may have felt triumphant for a while at winning the argument, but sooner or later, an insidious guilt may have crept into his mind, guilt over providing bad customer service. Guilt might have ruined the rest of his day. Thus, I saved him from a day ruined by guilt. Right.

Somehow, though, I sense that he is not likely a guy who would chew up his insides with guilt. If he's like me, he probably turned that moment of defeated frustration into a full day of passive aggressive resentment. Us control freaks get a lot of mileage out of being angry.

Either way, no matter what I did, odds are, he would have been angry, because he's likely unhappy with the fact that his life (and all the people in it) are out of his control. No matter what he does, customers won't behave. Cash machines balk. Nothing I do or don't do will change his outlook if he is as unhappy as I am guessing. He's probably a frustrated artist. Maybe his mother is dying of dementia in a nursing home. Whatever it is, it's not my problem. I didn't cause it, I can't control it, and I can't cure it. He will have to find his own way through the swampy customer service cesspool.

I can wish him well and bless his journey. Next time I see him manning the self-scan checkout, I will attempt to avoid making his life hellish if I can. I might even split my groceries into two batches, no more than fifteen items each. But I won't stop scanning my own groceries.