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.
